


It Takes an Invisible Thief

by Dawnwind



Category: Invisible Man (TV 2000)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darien's dream job--stealing a jewel encrusted grail in Paris, hobnobbing with the rich and famous turns into a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

It takes an Invisible Thief  
By Dawnwind

 

 _Gilbert Keith Chersterson once said, "Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it."_

I'd always loved watching those shows with thieves--It takes a Thief, Remington Steele and, of course, the ultimate second story man himself, Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.

Those guys had cool lives, cool thefts, cool clothes and amazing girlfriends. And they always ended up pulling a job for all the right reasons--to help the underdog, and right the wrongs. Whenever I'd hit bottom working as a thief, I'd always tune in one of those dudes--smooth, suave and sophisticated--and imagine myself in a tux, sipping a martini, some leggy blond chick on my arm, and the U.S. government getting me out of prison to steal for the Feds.

So this is where I was. I lived in a crummy San Diego studio apartment with unmatched furniture, thrift shop clothes, and although technically, I guess I qualified as a spy, the agency I worked for was the laughing stock of every other spy shop in town. My male partner was five foot six, so the only thing with long legs around here was me--and I sure as hell wasn't no leggy chick.

It could be said, with a stretch of the imagination, that the government HAD broken me out of prison only to have my brother the-mad-scientist jam a bio-synthetic Quicksilver gland into my skull and then set me up in this pathetically cash strapped agency with a manic-depressive for a partner. My life wouldn't have even made a decent TV show if they'd stuck in an extraneous brunette sexpot to lure the male viewers.

It could be worse, I suppose. I could be still in prison. But on days like the one we'd just had, where I got kicked in the groin, Hobbes got pistol whipped and Monroe got the perp, I really yearned for a classy theft in a tux with a Contessa to flirt with.

"Here you are, Darien." My keeper, Claire, handed me an icepack to put on the bruise rapidly spreading up from my pelvis to the hip. Swell, even if I had a Contessa to impress, I couldn't lounge around the hotel pool sipping mai-tais looking like this.

"You think that guy could have damaged anything?" I whined, wincing as the cold bag made contact with my tender flesh. "He musta been wearing steel toed boots, kicked me right in the…"

"Stop your grippin', Fawkes," Bobby Hobbes groaned. For once Hobbes was sitting in what I affectionately call the chair of torture. He had a noticeable lump on the left side of his head. It was all the more noticeable because Hobbes was practically bald, so there was no hair there to hide the damage from Steel-toed Boots' sidekick, the pistol whipper.

 

Claire had fussed and clicked her tongue, but finally decided it didn't need any stitches and had placed a careful line of butterfly bandages across the top of Bobby's scalp. Her fingers had stroked the fringe of hair across the back of his head afterwards as if she could smooth the pain away.

"After all, I'm the one who nearly got killed here," Hobbes continued, rubbing between his eyes with a look of intense pain on his face. I've had concussions before, they can hurt like a bitch. Luckily, Hobbes hadn't demonstrated any of the nastier side effects like blurred or double vision, or my least favorite activity, puking, so Claire had declared him fit to go home under his own power, as long as I drove.

"I could be seriously injured for the rest of my life," I countered. The icepack was beginning to melt and there were icy rivulets of water running down the inside of my leg getting my pants leg all wet. There had to be a better way to do this! "My future children could be in jeopardy."

"Well, gentlemen, did you get lollipops after the doctor put Band-Aids on your boo-boos?" Alex Monroe sauntered through the door to the lab, a leather jacket thrown casually over one shoulder like she was trying for a distaff imitation of Frank Sinatra. I almost expected her to start singing 'I did it my way!' since she was the only one who managed to have any good come out of this disaster of a case.

"Hey, Keepie, that would be a good idea," I cajoled.

"Too much candy is bad for your teeth. Let me see your wrist." Claire ignored me, flipping my right wrist over to view the snake she'd tattooed there two years ago.

To any casual passerby, I was just another 21st century dude, right in style with a tattoo like a million other guys my age, but that green and red snake had some very unusual properties. Claire had designed a monitor than changed the snake from green to red when the level of Quicksilver increased in my blood. The more red segments on the snake, the closer I was to Quicksilver madness. And I hated being anywhere near madness. Unfortunately, whether or not I used the gland's bi-product, Quicksilver to go invisible, the QS still built up in my body after approximately six days and I could go mad without even trying. You can bet I was really attached to the little snake imprinted in my epidermis. I hated having a red snake. But as Kermit the Frog once said, 'it ain't easy being green.'

"Looks good, Darien, you don't need a shot for several days at this rate." She nodded, tapping a finger on the two red segments on the snake's tail.

"Good, can we go home now?"

"Get some rest, both of you." Claire made shooing motions at me, but gently helped Bobby off the exam chair. I was one of the few people, possibly the only person other than the two involved who knew that the good doctor and Hobbes were seeing each other, or dating or whatever phrase was currently in vogue in the twenty-first century.

Given Bobby's protestations about fishing off the company pier, and the difficulties of maintaining a relationship in a job atmosphere like ours, they were both being quite circumspect about the whole thing. Claire had hidden her concern over Bobby's condition very well when we'd first arrived while Monroe was still in the room, but once they were more or less alone, not counting the visible, but bruised invisible man, she'd began fussing, alternating between worry and outrage at what had happened. Now that they once more had an audience in the person of Alex Monroe, Claire just conscientiously helped Hobbes on with his jacket and rubbed his back sweetly. "Call me if you have any pain. Darien, you need to wake him up every two hours if he goes to sleep."

"Aw, Keepie, I'll be all right," Hobbes groused, looking longingly at her. If they kept this up any longer, Monroe was going to get suspicious.

"Don't go running out the door," Alex said abruptly. "The Official wants to see you in his office."

"Why?" I asked, having already zipped up my orange pants in anticipation of going home.

"Yeah, we already told him everything we know," Hobbes agreed, rubbing his forehead with one finger.

"I have no idea what goes on in the man's head, I'm just acting as the messenger." Monroe tapped her foot, with her hands on her hips so that her red polished fingernails looked stark against her black trousers. She pulled her leather jacket on over a tight black tee, saying, "He said hurry."

"You know what they say about the messenger who brings bad news." Hobbes glanced up at me, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Yeah, we may have to kill her." I returned the smile.

"Just try me, boys, I bet I can kill you faster, with my bare hands." Monroe's smile was like a nasty chocolate in a big heart shaped box. It looked tasty until you cracked it in half and then it was one of those sticky fruit flavored creams that gave you a pain in the belly.

I really didn't want to know how many ways she could kill me. I ambled up the stairs to the main office, trying to ignore the ache that had settled around my right hip. It was just enough of an annoyance to be noticeable without really being painful.

"Agents, we have a new assignment for you," Eberts said brightly. I just wanted the little sycophant to be quiet. It was late and I was already up way past my bedtime.

"We haven't decompressed from the last one!" Hobbes complained. I put up a silent cheer. Wasn't there somewhere that overworked federal agents could complain? OSHA maybe?

"Well, never fear." The Fat Man looked smug and overjoyed at the same time. "You'll have lots of time to relax with this next job. You're going to Paris."

"All right!" I take back all the vicious things I was thinking about the man just then. I'd never been to the City of Lights. "When?"

"And why?" Hobbes asked more cautiously.

"And who exactly is going?" Monroe asked coming in behind us. I thought she'd left.  
"All your questions will be answered in good time," The Official stated. "Eberts?"

Eberts bent down to retrieve a bottle of wine from the Official's bottom drawer. Hey, maybe we finally made it into the inner circle and got to have drinks with the Fat Man. I knew, cause I'd done some invisible snooping on more than one occasion, that Charlie Borden kept some pretty good scotch and gin in that drawer.

"This, gentlemen, is not what it appears."

"You're telling me," Alex agreed, coming closer to read the fancy French label on the bottle. "That was a terrible year, I bought a bottle last week that tasted like vinegar."

"I'm glad to know you have an appreciation for the finer things in life, Agent Monroe, but you will not be needed on this case," Charlie said.

"Oh, where will I be needed?" she asked. I could tell she was hurt, Alex may have a self-defense shield that could ward off enemy missiles, but underneath her feelings were surprisingly easy to wound. She liked to be in on the action and not stuck in the backwater.

"Here in San Diego, monitoring every move that Chysalis makes. My best agents will be in France dealing with a bio-terrorism plot, so I need my finest agent keeping the home fires safe."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, sir," she said in a hollow voice that somehow managed to have a snide aftertaste. She did have a fine nose, and good legs, too. And she was an impertinent little whine most of the time. "So what will Fawkes and Hobbes be doing-dealing with this bio-terrorism?"

"Going to a wine auction," Eberts spoke up once again.

"I wouldn't mind picking up a couple of liters, how bout you, Fawkes?" Hobbes leaned back against the wall, crossing his feet in a casual pose.

"Never had much imported stuff, I was raised drinking the good ol' American classic—Thunderbird," I cracked, sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs the Fat Man kept around. Would it be so terrible to have decent furniture around here?

"Nah, I took you for a Gallo man, myself," Hobbes lobbed back at me.

"Gentlemen, you will be representing an American distribution company ready to break into the high-end international wine market. You are interested in picking up several European brands to start selling to high priced collectors here in the States." Eberts explained. "This bottle here, in particular, is the label you must get your hands on. We actually want every bottle made by this particular winery."

"I didn’t know you were such a wine snob," I addressed the Official. "To send your best agents over to broker a couple bottles of hooch for you."

"Fawkes, he mentioned something about bio-terrorism," Hobbes reminded. "Sir, are you saying there's something about this wine…?"

"Very good, Bobby, this is no hooch, as Darien put it. This bottle contains enough of a rare new bacteria to kill every man--and woman--in this room," The Official said ominously.

"Oh, my God." Claire came running into the office, a look of panic on her pretty face. "My God, sir, do you know what this is?" She held a small test tube in one latex-gloved hand.

"I'm glad you're here, Doctor, because obviously this concerns you."

"I analyzed the sample you had given me just before Alex, Darien and Bobby returned," Claire said breathlessly. "This is vile stuff--deadly. I'm not sure there are antibiotics that could kill this bacteria."

"All the more reason that I want the three of you getting hold of this so-called wine before some enemy country does first."

"What exactly could that do to a person?" Alex asked softly, looking askance at the test tube Claire still held.

"Kill them," she said simply. "It operates similarly to meningitis, only much quicker, and with more complications. It would present with symptoms such as headache, stiff neck, high fever, nausea, then extremely quickly lead to disorientation, coma and death."

"Crap." I couldn't think of anything else to say. "Could you put that down somewhere, Claire? Preferably in an incinerator? It's making me nervous." I pointed to the test tube.

"Oh, yes, sorry." She looked down as if surprised to find she was still holding the vial. "I'll be right back."

"So, it anyone drinks that stuff, they're goners, huh?" Hobbes asked with a tight edge to his voice. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, obviously in pain. This information can't possibly be helping the headache he already had. "How do we know which bottles of wine are the bad ones?"

"This, gentlemen, is a bottle of 1996 Chateau Crane Noir Bordeaux, special reserve, made in the Loire Valley." Eberts pointed to each word on the embossed gold label with the end of a pencil like a schoolteacher giving a lecture.

"What does that mean?" Hobbes asked.

I'd done pretty well in high school French. "Uh--Castle Black…. Skull?"

"Well, that about sums it up, huh?" Hobbes nodded soberly.

"Correct, Darien, many wines have very eccentric names, why in the Napa Valley there is a winery called Folie a deux, which loosely translated means two crazies, although their Chardonnay has a fine bouquet and an exquisite…"

"Shut up, Eberts!" The Official yelled.

"How did you get hold of that stuff, anyway?" Hobbes leaned over to get a good look at the bottle without touching it.

"That's classified," Charlie Borden said superciliously, "You're on a need to know basis."

"Well, I kinda think we need to know," I complained. "I mean, what do we do once we get those bottles? What if one of them breaks? What happens? Do we get sick?"

"No, Darien." Claire had returned from her disposal expedition. "Luckily, that bacteria is very fragile outside it's host--the medium inside the bottle holds it dormant until someone drinks it. Inside the human body, it would multiply with amazing speed, but spilled out on the ground it would die quickly."

"Then we spill about a million gallons out on the ground," Hobbes declared, crossing his arms.

"Don't you dare," The Official growled. "It is important that the bacteria be studied and antibiotics discovered."

"I concur," Claire agreed. "At the very least, the CDC will want a sample, as well as many other agencies involved with bio-terrorism."

"If I could ask a really stupid question." I put up my hand like when I was in grade school, but all this talk of deadly bacteria was making me nauseated. "But why us? Aren't there--uh-- other agents used to dealing with this sort of thing?"

"Fawkes has a point. ATF, maybe the CIA?" Monroe pointed out. "You really want the Invisible con and Lithium Bob running this operation?"

"Monroe, that was low." Hobbes glared, and as much as the words hurt, I had to agree with her.

"I may be the Devil's advocate, here, but you two have never worked on an international level together."

"I WAS CIA, Monroe." Hobbes stood, using that minor height advantage to loom over her while she was seated.

"You were, but he wasn't. And for all the skills Fawkes has learned over the last couple of years, he hasn't had the training for this kind of thing." She was sounding so damned reasonable. Kinda scary, especially when we're talking about Alex Monroe.

"We did go to South America," Hobbes put in a last protest.

"For the medical angle of this operation, I will be sending along the good doctor," The Official said smoothly, ignoring the brewing opposition. "Hobbes for the nuts and bolts espionage portions of the job and Fawkes has a very special skill, which is why we need him instead of some other agent."

"You want me to steal something?" I guessed not too difficult a conclusion to come to. After all, that was why they wanted me on most assignments.

"More to the point, we want you to steal something while invisible," The Fat Man said with a frightening smile. Most of the time, things that make him happy are likely to cause grief to everyone else.

"Well, at least the Keep will be along to give me a shot," I muttered. "What exactly do I steal?"

"The molecular diagram to this designer bacteria--which will hopefully aid in finding a cure," Eberts put in. "The auction is by invitation only, a black tie affair, with dinner and dancing before and after. A large, ornate, jewel encrusted grail will be on display during the affair, and only then. Our informants believe that there is a small chamber in the base of the grail where a computer chip with the chemical breakdown needed to unlock the secret of the deadly bacteria is hidden."

"Search for the Holy Grail?" I grinned idiotically. "Just like Indiana Jones?"

"More like Monty Python," Monroe said sarcastically.

"You three will fly out to Paris tomorrow night," The Official proclaimed, the no arguments implicit in his tone.

"Before that, there are many preparations necessary to ready you for the operation." Eberts held out his usual itemized lists. "Agent Monroe, it has been determined that you have the best fashion sense. You assignment will be to take Agent Fawkes shopping for a new wardrobe suitable for the company he will be keeping."

"You mean I get the fluff job?" She rose out of her seat, impressive in black leather and spike heels.

*****************

Henry David Thoreau, better known for his thoughts on Walden, once said, "Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes."

I'd always been a laid back like shopper with a distinct idea on my own wardrobe. As much as this assignment was sort of my dream job, I did have a very real suspicion about something where I couldn't even pack my own underwear. Monroe wanted to replace everything.

Believe me, shopping with Alex five-star rated Monroe was no fluff job. She had me out of bed in the morning and standing at the door of the mall the moment the stores opened, planning her mission like it was D-day, and Bernie's Tall Men's Boutique was Germany. We hit every men's shop in greater San Diego. My feet were killing me and I had on sensible shoes--more than one pair. Alex's idea of shopping diverged wildly from mine. I like to amble through flea markets and second hand stores for the unusual, the unique. I'd found some of my favorite clothes that way. And after an hour or so, a nice long break to savor a good cup of java.

Alex bullied the shop people, reducing one poor girl to tears when she confessed she'd never heard of French cuffs. To be truthful, I'd heard of them, but I wasn't sure I could recognize one in a line up. We stormed Macy's, blitzed through Neiman Marcus and reduced Nordy's to rubble. But, by the end of the day, Monroe declared me well dressed.   
Since getting the pants cuffs altered had taken longer than expected, Alex bought me a leather suitcase with wheels and a cart handle and packed it herself, then delivered me to the airport. I was kinda touched until she informed me that if any of these clothes came back to the States in anything but pristine condition, she would personally hold me accountable. I guess that made sense since I was the one wearing them.

Rendezvousing with Hobbes and Claire at the international terminal, I was awarded with wide-eyed amazement and a whistle of appreciation from Claire.

"Alex, you've outdone yourself," she crowed, "I didn't think it was possible to dress Darien so nicely."

"Thank you very much, Claire," Monroe said gruffly, running a proprietary hand down the arm of my jacket. "I kind of enjoyed the challenge."

"Hey--don't I get a say here?" I whined, trying to loosen the collar of the white dress shirt which featured a collar pin restraining the most expensive silk tie I'd ever had round my neck. "I feel like a dressed up Ken doll."

"And you look like one." Hobbes was dressed pretty spiffily himself, but more casually, in a tweedy jacket, sweater vest and gray pleated slacks. "But, Fawkes, the chicks love it."

"Yeah." I had to admit, noticing two babes walk by towards the Bahaman airline counter. They had on teeny spaghetti strapped tees, sarong type skirts, each had a little backpack slung over one arm, and both had long blond hair. I really wanted to go to the Bahamas right then instead of France. Both Bahama Mamas were giving me even more of a once over than I had given them. Maybe clothes do make the man.

"We'd better get a move on," Claire urged, "It takes bloody forever to get through the security line. Good-bye, Alex, keep the home fires burning."

"More likely to put a few out," she said, but her eyes were envious.

"Thanks, Alex," I said sincerely. I did like some of the stuff she'd bought. The silk boxers were really comfortable.

"Now, I got the intel we need from Eberts," Hobbes said. "We can go over our parts in the waiting area."

"Lovely, Bobby, but I'd really like a cup of tea--the stuff they serve on planes is worse than barley water." Claire led the way to a small café.

"What exactly is barley water, Mary Poppins?" I wondered idly.

"Do they have donuts?" Hobbes asked with interest. I stifled a grimace, I hate donuts, and whatever I'd managed to stuff down my throat on the five-minute lunch break in the mall food court Alex had allowed wasn't sitting right. "C'mon, Fawkes, get a move on."

"How's your head, Hobbes?"

"Doin' better--been getting' a lot of the ol' TLC from Claire, though." Bobby grinned up at me conspiratorially.

"You might invest in a hat." I looked straight down at the top of his head where the butterfly Band-Aids looked remarkably like some sort of creature inching its way across his bald dome. "Looks like you got a caterpillar up there."

"Thanks a lot, Fawkes." He groaned, covering the offending sight with his fingers. Claire had secured us a table and Bobby had to content himself with a Danish. I opted for a cup of tea, myself, although, if that dishwater was anything to go by, barley water might not be a bad thing, and I usually like tea.

Before sitting, I managed to remove the collar pin and loosen the Windsor knot on the tie. After folding the tiny piece of silk that was worth more than its weight in gold, I slipped it into the pocket of my gray pinstriped cashmere suit jacket and deposited it over the back of the café chair.

"Darien, dressed like that you could be a model," Claire complimented, but I noticed that both her hand and Bobby's had disappeared under the table in unison. It was cute, them holding hands under the table like two high school freshmen.

"He was." Hobbes smirked, taking a bite of his pastry, which left flakes of crust on his lower lip. Claire used her free thumb to brush them off, her hand lingering on his face a second longer than necessary. "Except they only took pictures of his head like the department of Corrections."

"My hair, Bobby," I emphasized. Ever since I'd told him of my stint as a hair model he'd done nothing but tease me about it.

"OOO, I'd like to see those." Claire grinned.

"They were…stolen," I said straight-faced. "And destroyed."

We had nearly two hours to wait before take-off, and in that time, Bobby filled us in on the whole assignment. Claire was to be our enologist or wine scientist--I knew so little about wine, I didn't know that would be necessary. I thought all you had to do was sip and spit. That was, actually, supposed to be my part--I was the taster and snob expert and Hobbes was the business manager. He actually had authorization from the Fat Man to pay whatever it took to get that deadly brew out of the hands of our enemies. That in itself was a wonder, since Charlie Borden was as stingy with a dollar as Ebenezer Scrooge. I guess some things are worth paying the big bucks for. The question no one had answered for me was who made the vile stuff?

*******************

Can I just say for the record that plane travel is my least favorite mode of transportation? I'm too tall, even in planes with 'extra legroom'. It's like being jack-knifed in two to sit in coach, and God forbid the Official to fork out enough dough to have his "top agents" fly comfortably.

Believe me, I took some math. I understand, sort of, all that aeronautical mumbo-jumbo about weight versus drag equals lift, but come on! A 747 on the ground doesn't resemble a lighter-than-air flying craft whatsoever! A Cessna, maybe, looks flight worthy, but a jumbo jet defies the imagination as to how it remains aloft.

Then there's the stale air, the cramped quarters and oh, yeah--I get airsick. Need I say more? Claire gave me some Dramamine which knocked me out for most of the flight.

"Fawkes." Bobby gave my arm a shake and I blearily opened my eyes.

"Huh?"

"We'll be landing soon."

"Wake me again when we're there," I muttered, trying to find any possible position that was even remotely comfortable. My feet were half-tingly from lack of circulation, and I swore my knees were about to launch a revolt.

"No can do, my friend, the stewardess wants your seat in the upright position." Hobbes imitated the head flight attendant's school principal delivery.

"I do, and I may never be able to stand in an upright position again," I groused, annoyed that Hobbes had no trouble with his leg room. I straightened the seat, glancing at the ground getting nearer through the little plane porthole.

I'd never been to Europe, and despite my less than pleasant attitude, I was really excited. Watching France's landscape through scuttling clouds, I could begin to make out little buildings and miniscule cars. As the engine whine changed perceptively, and a loud thump signaled the landing gear deploying, the plane lurched downward, pushing me against the restricting cincture of the seatbelt.

Crap. For a moment, pain flared up my abdomen and down my right side, leaving a vague nausea. Just as quickly, the discomfort faded, but I was disconcerted all the same.

"Darien?" Claire must have seen something in my face, even from across the aisle. "Are you alright?"

"I'm good, Claire, all fine."

"You were lookin' kinda pasty faced there." Hobbes peered at me.

"I'll be great when we get off this plane. Legs are all cramped up," I lied. I don't know why I felt the need to hide the pain I'd just experienced. Would Claire have sent me back to the U.S. for just a harmless cramp in the side? Hardly, but, for whatever reason I didn't want to admit I was still hurting from having been kicked in the balls more than 36 hours ago.

We'd arrived midmorning French time, but by the time we'd collected baggage, gone through customs and taken a cab to a surprisingly luxurious hotel on a narrow, old fashioned rue, I was starving. Of course, that could also have something to do with the fact that I hadn't eaten since hours before we'd left California. Bobby's descriptions of the two meals and a snack that I'd missed didn't really improve my disposition.

"Hobbes, unless you still have one of those chicken breasts in wine sauce in your pocket, shut up until I get something to eat." I snarled, lugging my bags into the room I'd be sharing with my partner. Claire naturally got her own room, but Hobbes and I were expected to double up to save money on what I'm sure was an expensive operation for our little agency.

It was, as hotel rooms go, fairly nice. King sized beds with gold and red patterned comforters, a small gold settee and a red armchair were tucked into the corner in view of the armoire cum TV area, and a round table with two chairs completed the room.

"How 'bout room service?" Bobby picked up a leather bound volume the size of a small town phone book from the table.

"Now you're talkin'." I grinned, grabbing it out of his hands. Thumbing through the menu, I salivated. They served everything from Filet Mignon and Perrier Jouet Champagne, which was a mere150 Euro dollars a bottle, to an 'All American hamburger cooked just the way you like it' according to the menu description and Coca Cola at 3 Euro bucks a bottle. I was certainly glad that we no longer had to deal with francs and all those other foreign currencies, I hated not quite knowing how much I was paying for something. The Euro dollar's about equal to 90 cents American. That, even I can figure out in my head.

I went for middle of the road gastronomically speaking, a little adventuresome since we were in France, but something I'd eaten before to be on the safe side.

French Onion soup smelled divine when I removed the silver dome from the serving tray. Crusty French bread dripping with broiled cheese delighted the eye and a lower priced bottle of golden Chardonnay completed the order. Bobby was naturally automatically paranoid that this wine could somehow be associated with the Chateau Crane Noir that we had come to purchase until Claire sweetly pointed out that not only was it a white wine, and made from a completely different grape, but it was from a completely different area of France. He still looked suspicious as he uncorked the bottle and poured out three glasses, sniffing at them with narrowed eyes.

"Bobby." Claire picked up her glass and took a healthy swig with a teasing grin, "You can't smell the bacteria." She swallowed, obviously enjoying the flavor of the wine, then looked thoughtful, "Although, maybe you can. There are many bacteria that have specific odors--Pseudomonas immediately springs to mind. I'll have to research this further. It could be that the pungent bouquet of the wine covers up any…"

"Do we have to have medical talk at the dinner table?" I couldn't wait, but dove into the soup with gusto, polishing off my share before the other two had barely tasted theirs.

"Belly must be feeling better, huh, partner?" Hobbes was still peering into his wine, but apparently decided that since the good doctor had already nearly finished her glass and hadn't succumbed to any dread disease, it might be safe. He sipped slowly. "You ate that fast enough."

Man, he knew me too well. I was surprised at how transparent I must have been on the plane. "I'm still hungry," I confessed. "Think we have time to go find one of those sidewalk cafes, then stroll down the Champs Elysees?"

"I'd say Darien was excited to be in Paris." Claire laughed, but there were stars in her eyes.  
"To our French caper." Hobbes toasted with his glass.

"Here, here!" Claire clinked her glass to his and then to mine. We all drank quickly, they finished their soup and we were out of that hotel room in a flash.

A little patisserie just down the block from our hotel suited my needs perfectly, and I devoured a _pain au chocolat_ and then an éclair. Okay, so I really was hungry. Whatever had caused the nausea that had been plaguing me for the last day and a half had vanished without a trace, thank God.

Hobbes and Claire poured over a city map, discussing our adventure, their heads touching. Turns out Claire had been to Paris in her teens when she lived in England and she was delighted to give us the Grand Tour. Probably not precisely what the Official had in mind, but it served the dual purpose of giving us the lay of the city and indulging in my tourist desires.

Bobby had also been to Paris, in the mid '90's, but on an assignment with the CIA, so he was just as interested to view the Eiffel Tower and Place de la Concord.

We squabbled amiably over which direction to go first, but finally decided on a boat ride down the Seine River for an overview of the entire place. Paris isn't called the City of Love for nothing. Hobbes had his fingers linked with Claire's the minute we sat down on the Bateau Mouche. I felt like an interloper. I would have gone transparent and wandered off except I knew I'd be in big shit if we needed more counteragent than the supply Claire had packed. She had no supplies to make any extra in Paris. So, I contented myself with securing a place on the railing, letting the two have their moment of romance.

Paris is a city of white and cream buildings, rising up on both sides of the Seine like delicately designed cakes frosted in spun sugar. The boat cruised leisurely passing under a series of bridges, then circling the island where the most famous church in the world resides. We disembarked there, wandering up ancient roadways to the cathedral.

Notre Dame awed me. Although raised a Catholic, I'd hadn't been much of a churchgoer since the age of 13, but I could change my ways just to be able to sit in a place like that for an hour every week. The afternoon sun streamed through the stained glass windows creating shifting mosaics of reflected rainbows on the stone floor. Hobbes and Claire went off to examine some ancient texts on display but I stood silently in the middle of my own private kaleidoscope, watching red, then blue, then green dapple across my skin. Across from me, the flames of prayer candles guttered and flared like spirits rising from the earth every time the big doors opened to admit another visitor. I've never seen a building made of stone, mortar and glass that seemed to be capable of floating on air the way that cathedral did. Breathtaking.

The Louvre, of course, was a temptation to my larcenous heart. Paintings so famous and yet as familiar as old friends. The Mona Lisa is behind glass and a velvet rope with guards stationed nearby who eyed every art lover as a potential thief. They were right about me. Not that I would ever really try to steal the single most recognizable painting in the Western world, but there were a few other smaller ones that caught my eye. However, I couldn't help forming plans in my head, even about the painting Leonardo had originally called La Gionconda. How to breach the protective glass, disable the undoubtedly heat and movement sensitive alarms under the canvas--I wonder if there were guards stationed in this gallery even at night? Maybe laser beams…? Just to be able to touch the canvas Leonardo Di Vinci painted with his own talented…

I felt a hand on my arm, Hobbes gave me a stern look before leading me into an adjacent gallery. "Stop planning the heist of the century, Moriarity," Hobbes said sotto voce. "Or they'll never let you come back."

"Aw, Hobbesy. Let a guy dream a little." I cocked my head to contemplate a near photo realistic painting of one of the multiple King Louis-s. He wore a sumptuous ermine cape and high, very pointy shoes. "He looks damned uncomfortable."

"Good thing Monroe didn't make you buy a pair of those, huh?" Bobby laughed, glancing around to locate the blond doctor.

Claire was chatting with a tiny brunette with dark, blue almost purple eyes wearing a purple Christian LeCroix suit with a lavender silk blouse underneath. I had a feeling that Monroe would have approved of the ensemble. Seeing Hobbes, Claire beckoned us over with a smile.

"Bobby, Darien, this is an old friend of mine with a new name. The Duchess of Lancaster, Gemma Partridge. Lady Gemma, my husband Robert Hobbes and our business associate Darien Fawkes."

Barely even flicking an eyelid at his new elevation to married status, Hobbes gave a courtly little bow. "How do you do?" he said.

"Lady Gemma." I offered a suddenly cold hand, not at all sure how to act in front of royalty, or whatever a duchess counts as.

"Mr. Hobbes, Mr. Fawkes." She smiled radiantly, her accent upper crust British like Claire's. "So glad to meet you, I haven't seen my old school chum since we were interred in that horrible boarding school."

"Those chilly showers in the morning, and awful porridge for breakfast." Claire shivered with a laugh.

"My husband just slipped off for a few minutes, but you may recognize him. He was Dillys' older brother." Lady Gemma looked around as if trying to spot the man.

"Oh, yes, I think I do recognize him." Claire pointed to a tall man with a long angular face and thinning, pale hair. He was probably only in his early thirties, but in a few years he'd have less hair than Hobbes. "Dennys Partridge!"

"Hello, darling, picking up strays in the Louvre?" The Duke of Lancaster bent almost in half to give his wife a chaste peck on the cheek before holding out a hand to Claire. "I'd recognize my escort to the Christmas gala anywhere! How have you been?"

Since Hobbes and I don’t even know Claire's real last name, this was all incredibly intriguing. "The Christmas gala, sweetheart?" Bobby asked with interest, playing the lovely-dovey husband bit to the hilt. "I'd like to hear about your old school days."

"Really dead boring, dusty ancient history, Robert," Claire dismissed.

"What brings you all to France?" The duke asked when introductions had been made again.

"We're broadening our horizons, so to speak," I piped up, "We've been heavy into the California and Australian wine markets and want to find add French suppliers to our selection."

"Ah, you're here for the auction!" He nodded. It was unusual for me to talk to someone who was as tall as I was. Usually I practically have to stoop to look into people's faces, especially my own partner, Bobby Hobbes, but Duke Dennys actually looked me straight in the eye.

"That's why we're here as well. My family owns a small, private vineyard in Brittany. We just recently started bottling for commercial sales, and I must say it's gone quite well."

"Won a small award," Lady Gemma interjected.

"What's the name of your wine?" Hobbes asked, his suspicious nature coming to fore. I wanted to scream that any criminal worth his salt trying to get away with bottling deadly bacteria in Bordeaux wouldn't admit it in the middle of the Louvre, but I held my tongue.

"Nothing very original, I'm afraid, it's Lancaster Cellars Chardonnay."

"Well, I'd love to try some sometime," Hobbes came back smoothly.

"Then it's settled, ol' chum, you all must take supper with us in our apartment," Lady Gemma crowed, linking arms with Claire, who was looking a bit strangled.

"Oh, no, Gemma, really, I'm sure that…" she started, looking wildly at her 'husband'. "Robert, tell them…"

"Now, sweetheart, I think that's a marvelous idea--I'd love to really get to know some of your old friends!" Hobbes grinned maniacally at her. "When should we be there, your Grace?"

"Eight o'clock sound about right, darling?" The man glanced down at the top of his wife's dark hair. They must have pretty good internal vibes going on, because she tipped her head back at the same moment and caught his gaze with a smile.

"Lovely. I'll just have to tootle on home and tell Clementine to start work on her best recipes. I can't wait." Gemma leaned over and bussed Claire's cheek, "See you, Lovey. I'll call your hotel with the address and directions."

"We'll be there--is it formal?" Claire asked dazedly.

"For a friendly supper? Hardly, why I have a three year old in the house, I hardly ever break out the diamond encrusted tiara anymore." Gemma laughed. I couldn't help myself, I liked her. Despite the somewhat odd meeting, surrounded by the stern faces of several generations of French kings, I didn't really see any ulterior motive in the Duke and Duchess, although I'd bet even money Hobbes was gonna go looking for one.

"Ta." Gemma waved a tiny hand then tucked it into her husband's arm and trotted after him. His legs were about as long as her entire body.

"Well, Keepie," Hobbes drawled, arms crossed with a smirk on his face, "Been keepin' secrets from us all this time?"

"Hobbes, you know she has. Why, how well do we even know this woman? She won't even admit she has a last name."

"Stop it, both of you. I have sedatives in my purse, and I know how to use them." Claire smiled serenely at us. "I knew both of them a long time ago. They know nothing of my current employment, and it's going to stay that way. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." Hobbes saluted sharply, then offered his arm.

We were following a guided tour group who were heading for an exit, hoping that this was the quickest way out of the museum. The Louvre was huge. After trailing the group for some minutes, we finally saw daylight and a way out.

"Can I interest you in a _café au lait_ , perhaps?" Bobby suggested.

"That sounds more like it." She nodded. "Are you coming, Darien?"

"Nah, I think I'll go wander around in that garden, an' wait for you." I pointed down the concourse to a lovely tree lined park with small metal chairs set haphazardly around instead of the customary benches.

"The Tuileries." Claire nodded in approval. "Charming place. We won't be too long. Shall we meet up in--say--half an hour by the pond with the little boats?"

"Don't get lost, Fawkes." Bobby waggled a finger at me, but looked pleased that I'd given him some alone time with his 'wife'.

Like a lot of other things I'd seen in Paris that day, the Tuileries had that almost familiar look to them. They'd been the background in more than one movie set in France, and I wandered around with a sense of deja vu, classical music playing softly in my head. It wasn't until I actually saw the pond where small Parisian children were sailing miniature ships that the memory slipped into place. There's this movie called _Little Romance_ , it must be pretty old because Diane Lane is a little girl. But anyway, she runs away with this little French kid and they have adventures all over Paris and France. I could swear they stood right where I was. Or if they hadn't, they should have.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the boys--dressed in Nikes and Gap clothes like any American kids, but yelling encouragement to their boats in French, so I knew I was in another country. Daffodils and other spring flowers were pushing up through the grass randomly throughout the park, and the whole place was a perfect postcard for Paris in the springtime. Overhead, the trees were beginning to bud, creating clouds of fluffy popcorn.

 _Little Romance_ also has this great faux Vivaldi score, the same delicate haunting violins I was hearing in my thoughts. It took me a few minutes to realize that the Vivaldi concerto wasn't just a daydream but coming from a pretty teenaged girl playing her violin along one of the paths. I sat in one of the many metal, ladder backed chairs, watching the boys squabble over the sinking of one of the tiny masted ships as the setting sun left the world in twilight, listening to 'Air on a G String. ' It may be one of those moments I keep inside me forever.

 

******************

Claire looked unaccountably nervous when we'd congregated in the lobby of the hotel to wait for the cab to take us to the Duke of Lancaster's apartment. She had stressed to us that while Lady Gemma had said it wasn't a formal occasion, my idea of casual and hers were on opposite poles. A barfly tee shirt and jeans was not going to cut it when dining with royalty, so I had opted for my favorite of the suits Alex had picked out. It was brown with a very faint brown pin stripe and a matching vest. Hobbes even attempted to teach me the proper way to knot my tie, but I still didn't have the finer points down when it was time for us to leave.

Claire and Hobbes really looked like a married couple. By accident or design, I didn't know which, both were wearing dark blue. She had her long hair pulled back with a gold headband that matched the trim on a navy blue sailory sort of dress and Hobbes sported a deep blue suit and shirt with a shiny blue tie.

"Regis!" I greeted. "I feel like a contestant on Millionaire."

"Yeah? Then riddle me this, Batman, why does our own Keepie look so worried?"

"Final answer for the whole million, Reg, I think she doesn't want us to know about her sordid life at Boarding schools for the Rich and snobby."

"You two are being infantile." Claire humphed, but she was smiling. "I am neither rich nor snobby. Remember, no funny stuff tonight. Don't forget we are on a mission."

"And I thought I was the experienced agent around here," Bobby muttered, leading the way to the cab pulled up at the curb.

The Partridges or do you call them the Lancasters? Lived in a swanky part of Paris in a well-preserved old building festooned with ornate wrought iron balconies. In my cat burglar days, I would have killed to find a building that easy to scale from the outside. It would have been a breeze to jump from balcony to balcony, jimmy open one of those old casement windows and slip inside…  
This time, of course, we were on the preferred list, and the concierge let us in the front door and held the cranky elevator open for us, going so far as to push the floor button and everything. No wonder rich people get used to be waited on hand and foot.

Lady Gemma opened the penthouse door with a cheery greeting, echoed by a miniature version of herself. And I do mean miniature. Little Lady Scarlett was about three and came up to my knee. She must not have inherited any of her father's length, instead getting all of her mother's petit good looks.

 _"Bonjour,_ " Scarlett piped up.

"We're trying to raise her bilingual." Lady Gemma laughed, "It'd probably be going much better if I spoke much French, but I'm hopeless at languages."

"Yes, I do seem to recall being of some help in that department right before your 'O' levels." Claire laughed. "Conjugated a few Latin verbs for you?"

"I owe you for that one," Gemma agreed, "C'mon, _ma fille,_ " she addressed to her daughter. "Let's go show Claire your room and get ready for bed."

The ladies headed up a wide staircase with more wrought iron work for the banister and railings. I hadn't been in an apartment this elegant, and yet understated and classy, since I was a successful thief, and that was some time ago. Paintings on the walls were by recognizable artists, including a fantastic Warhol, two small Matisses and a Degas that I priced at several million, conservatively.

The Duke waved at us from a mahogany wet bar, having just finished pouring himself a martini from a pitcher. "Care for drinks?" he offered.

"Thank you." Hobbes accepted a glass, taking an appreciative sip. "Smooth gin." He swirled the alcohol in his glass, glancing around the beautifully appointed living room.  
The editors of Architectural Digest would have prostrated themselves to photograph the place for a cover on their magazine, but there wasn't that stuffy, uncomfortable feeling some overly designed houses have. An antique blue Delft porcelain stove was a cozy centerpiece for the room, giving out heat and a defining color for the rest of the furniture. The Chinese silk rug was blue and pink, echoed in the pillows in the window seat and a weird standing lamp with a shade like a flamingo. Little touches like an obviously hand crocheted afghan and several forgotten Legos peeking out from under the dark blue brocade sofa made the room a home instead of a showplace.

"Nice place you've got here, Your Grace," Bobby complimented. "Don't you think so, Fawkes." He elbowed me in the side because I think I was drooling.

"Here, that your grace business is for the public, now that we're at home, I hope you will call me Dennys as all my friends do." The duke handed me a glass with two speared olives glistening in the clear liquor.

I've never liked martinis, but I'm game to go with the flow. "Shaken, not stirred, I presume?" I quipped, doing my best James Bond.

"Naturally, my good man."

"Dennys." Hobbes glanced around to see if the ladies had returned yet, and then asked, "tell me something, since we're all friends here, what do you call my wife?"

"I use her married name, Mrs. Hobbes," Dennys said with a twinkle of humor in his pale blue eyes. "Gemma found some old photos you might be interested in."

"Oh, yes."

Gemma came down from putting Scarlett to bed, her arm linked companionably with Claire's like the old school chums they had been.

"Darling, where are those albums you dug out?" the Duke called out.

"Oh, Lovey, you'll die!" Gemma laughed, pointing to a pile of fabric covered photo albums on an inlaid marble and alabaster end table.

"No," Claire moaned, "Robert, you don't want to see those."

"But I do." Hobbes grinned at me, sitting down to flip open the first book. I leaned over the arm of the sofa to see. A class photo featured twenty or so teenaged girls in front of an imposing stone building, all wearing classic British schoolgirl uniforms. That is, flat blue boaters, red ties, blue blazers and blue pleated skirts. Gemma was visible right in the front because she was so tiny, but I had to run my finger along the line of girls in the back row to find Claire. She had her head turned to one side, in profile, the red ribbon on her hat flapping in a breeze.

"Eww, those uniforms." Claire screwed up her pretty face, making a gagging noise. "If we're going to look at those at least find a decent picture."

"I'm fascinated." Bobby watched over her arm as she claimed the book and swiftly turned pages. "She hasn't told me anything about her life in England."

"Oh, my, Claire was a load of fun! Always ready to pull pranks on the headmistress." Gemma giggled.

"You don't say. I have to admit we rarely see that side of her," I said, but Claire gave me a glare that could have burned a hole in a diamond, so I shut up.  
Since the albums were Gemma's, there weren't many photos where Claire was centrally located. She admitted to being the blond blur in several field hockey actions shots but it wasn't until the second album that we found the piece de la resistance. There, with hair sprayed mid 80's big hair, was Dennys Partridge's date to the Christmas Gala.  
She had on a very frou-frou ruffly dress in Christmasy green with a red plaid sash and a red rose corsage. She looked very young, and heartbreakingly lovely. Denny not only had all his blond hair back then, it was nearly brushing the tailored shoulders of his dinner jacket.

"Oh, my God." Claire looked pale, "I can't believe you kept that awful thing."

"Sweetheart, you look great." Hobbes had a huge grin on his face, obviously enjoying his married role. "D'you still have that dress?"

"Hardly," she groaned, "Or that hair."

"Your hair does look more…natural now days," I agreed, planning to stay on her good side. She did keep all the counteragent locked up, after all.

"Gemma, if we have to look at these horrible things, find the one of you that night."

"Ta da." Gemma showed off her own portrait. She looked like a little Christmas fairy in a sparkly green satin number with a big net skirt like ballerinas wear, and a poinsettia in her dark hair. Her date was a tight jawed fellow with a bored expression.

"Very cute," I complimented. Actually, I think my date to the junior prom wore a blue dress a lot like that. We never actually made it to the prom…

"Like one of Father Christmas's helpers." She rolled her violet eyes. "And Horace, what a dull fish. Not a bit like you, dear." She gave Dennys a peck on the cheek as the maid came in to announce dinner.

The meal was fantastic, but my appetite had dulled since the onion soup from room service. The ache in my right side had returned, a dull pain like a deep bruise to the bone, and it was really tender to the touch. I sampled all the dishes, but I was mildly queasy and stuck mostly to the bland foods and some of the surprisingly good house wine, the Lancaster Cellars Chardonnay.

"We're looking to buy several labels to sell to our more discriminating private collectors, but I'm very interested in the Chateau Crane Noir Bordeaux," Hobbes said over coffee while we were all once again sitting in the blue and pink living room. "Have you heard anything about it?"

"Just rumors." Dennys frowned, his forehead creasing. "And not very good ones. That it's a very privately made and bottled wine, but there's something quite peculiar about it."

"In what way?" I asked.

"I don't quite know." The Duke shrugged, "But a friend who owns a vineyard and sold them the grapes said the men were odd ducks, not at all the sort he usually deals with."

"Would he be able to introduce us to the chateau's winemaker?" Hobbes asked with only a hint of the intense interest I knew was brewing inside him. Bobby's body was ramrod straight, leaning towards the Duke like a hunting dog.

"Certainly, at the soiree Thursday evening. Then, by the auction on Friday, you'll recognize all the players," Dennys agreed.

We discussed a little strategy on meeting one another the next night at the Georges Cinq hotel when the cocktail party and subsequent auction were to be held, and made our good-byes. Seems like the Duke was turning out to be a pretty useful person to know.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to have run into you at the Louvre of all places." Gemma sighed with a sweet smile of contentment. "I didn't know what had become of my old chum Lovey when you didn't make it to our ten year reunion. We must stay in touch."

"I was up to my eyeballs in writing my thesis then," Claire apologized, "It's been lovely to see you."

 

*****************

I woke up with the morning sun streaming through the red and gold curtains and the sound of the shower roaring in the bath. Hobbes must have snuck in first, hogging all the hot water. It wasn't like he had to fix his hair or anything. We'd gotten in late after the evening with the Duke and Duchess--wow, how often would I ever get to say that again? I hadn't been able to fall asleep right away, and now it was like my eyelids were glued together. Did NOT want to get up.

Groaning, I sat up. My groin was tender and slightly warm to the touch. Hell, I was more than slightly warm to the touch, I was undoubtedly running a low-grade fever. Not great. I really didn't want Claire to know I was probably coming down with the flu one day before my debut as an international thief and spy. So, I dug a couple of aspirin out of my tuck bag and downed them with tepid water.

Ice would be good, maybe an icepack on my right hip to relieve the inflammation. The flu didn't usually do this to me, but everybody knew that airplanes were giant disease incubators. Everybody got sick after flying, didn't they? The last time I'd had the flu, it had been some wicked designer virus which attacked the gland, and I sneezed smelly, solid Quicksilver and felt like crap warmed over. This was a much milder, more intestinal kind of thing. No sneezes, no headaches--well, not much of one anyway, and only a mild fever. I figured I'd live.

Unfortunately, the ice machine was down the hall and I wasn't exactly dressed for meeting and greeting in public, so I let the Quicksilver flow and slipped out. The aspirin had intensified my latent nausea, so while scooping out a bucket of the cold stuff, I selected a big slippery chip and stuck it in my mouth. Sucking, I was back in the room in under three minutes. Hardly used enough Quicksilver to matter. Wrapping the ice in a towel, I laid it gingerly on the nasty looking bruise just below my hipbone. For a few moments it burned, the ice somehow even colder than Quicksilver when I was invisible, but then the area grew numb.

"Your turn, Fawkes." Hobbes emerged from the bathroom with a waft of steam billowing out behind him. He was already dressed in a conservative white shirt and dark slacks, and selected a burgundy tie from his suitcase. Just the thing for a well-dressed wine merchant.

I had tucked the ice pack under my pillow when he'd come out. Can't let Hobbes know I wasn't feeling great or I'd never hear the end of it. I felt guilty that the maid would end up changing a soggy pillow, but it probably wasn't the worst thing she'd ever had to do.

"Will I be freezing my nuts off or did you leave any hot water?"

"Bobby Hobbes is a considerate roommate, my friend," he chided, expertly executing a proper Windsor knot in the burgundy silk.

"Hobbes, did you have all these clothes in your closet? I've never seen half of 'em."

"A good agent has to be able to blend, my friend. Very important to have a wardrobe that reflects a variety of different attire so you can be ready for any occasion,"  
he boasted.

"Rule number hundred and twelve in the Bobby Hobbes book for junior spies," I snarked, standing carefully.

"You feeling alright, Fawkes?" he asked. I can't hide anything from ol' eagle eyes.

"Got a stomach ache." I picked up the pace to escape the rest of the interrogation.

"Hope it wasn't nuthin' you ate last night. That meal was right out of Julia Child."

"I guess I'm just not used to drinking so much."

"That would be a headache, Fawkes. What gives?" Hobbes stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"Hobbes, maybe it's jet lag, I don't know, I'm just feeling kind of crappy this morning but a shower will fix everything right up…" I lied.  
"Okay, but I've got my eye on you." He really looked concerned and I hated lying to him. "You want me to order up some coffee?"

"Uh, why don't we wait until we can meet Claire down in that breakfast room?" I gained the sanctity of the bathroom and closed the door. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Luckily, the French are not big breakfast eaters--the only thing served was a variety of croissant and other flaky pastries, along with gallons of café au lait, so I managed to nibble my way through the meal without suspicion.

Hobbes and I were supposed to meet our French counterparts, two agents from Interpol who were our liaisons in this country. Our agency actually had no legal jurisdiction in France, so we couldn't detain anyone or carry firearms. Of course, Bobby Hobbes pretended ignorance of that particular fact. He'd barely tolerated being separated from his favorite H and K pistol on the flight over, but with security so tight these days, he'd had to endure that. Now, there was no way he would go anywhere without a couple of pounds of steel under his arm.

Monsieur Desjardins and Mademoiselle Clarons were professionals but obviously less than pleased to have us in the mix. They looked just as happy when Hobbes told them we were used to working alone and wouldn't need constant supervision. After all, we already had a 'contact' in Paris, one well connected Duke. Both French agents thanked us for our support in this matter, it was apparent that they didn't expect much from the Americans. Good, the fewer people I had to hide the invisibility from the better.

There'd been a time when I cursed even having the gland. It had caused no end of problems in my life -- from my brother getting murdered to constantly having vicious enemies on my tail who thought of nothing but trying to separate the gland from my skull. Now, that wouldn't be all that bad, in my opinion, if not for the little fact that I'd end up lying next to my brother in the Fawkes family grave plot. As far as Claire can tell, it would be impossible to safely remove my own little parasite. It has embedded itself into my brain, cozied up next to the pineal gland. So, now I have to live with it, and recently have discovered more and more uses for the damned thing. Sneaking down the hall in my skivvies is only a minor advantage.

My main goal in life was keeping me, my partner and my friends safe, and for that the gland has come in handy. But the trade off was I was supposed to be a 'top secret' project. Can't exactly run around telling the world I could turn invisible. So, hiding my particular and peculiar talent has become a way of life. Hobbes and I work mostly alone and we've come to like it best that way.

We met Claire for a quick lunch at a small café where we munched on fresh baguettes spread with pate and my new favorite, Port Salut cheese. Travel is so broadening for the palate. Nobody seemed to notice that I stuck to fizzy water and cheese for lunch, because Claire and Bobby were busy staring into each other's eyes while exchanging the new information they'd obtained. Claire had checked in with an Interpol microbiologist who was also working on an antibiotic that could be effective against the deadly version of meningitis.

"Listen, Hobbes, nobody's said. How exactly did we get that one bottle of Chateau Crane Noir? Seems to me the guys behind this aren't exactly thrilled that we know about their witches brew."

"Fawkes." Hobbes adjusted the sunglasses he wore, a stalling technique which I interpreted as bad news. "The first agent Interpol had on this case worked undercover with an organization with ties to the Middle East. When they discovered he'd managed to get one of the cases out to the good guys, they…"

"He died of meningitis," Claire said softly.

"Damn," I whispered, my gut cramping even more than usual.

"On a more positive note, I have determined, with the help of Jean-Claude…"

"Jean-Claude?" Hobbes repeated.

"The microbiologist I was working with this morning," she clarified. "Dr. Renaud, that the bacteria does have a distinctive odor -- sort of like rotting roses. Sickly sweet, it's an aroma often referred to as attar of roses."

"Well, that one won't be picked up by the perfume industry." I glanced around the busy street. Lots of people in France have dogs, and nearly all of them apparently take their dogs out for lunch. There were dogs of every sort, sniffing other dogs. Maybe a dog would be useful for us -- to sniff out this rotting roses bacteria. "Does Dr. Renaud know where this stuff came from? I mean, it's new, isn't it? Or did somebody manufacture it?"

"He believes a laboratory in Switzerland that is known for working for the highest bidder may have genetically manipulated a more benign bacteria into a lethal one." She paused, absently picking up her glass of white wine, stared at it for a moment and then placed it back on the tabletop. "It would have had to been tweaked to be able to survive in the wine medium until drunk. I'm sure the reason they picked a red wine was because it has a heartier bouquet and would disguise the bacteria's odor more easily."

"And when you drink it -- bam?" Bobby said succinctly. "Time to be pickin' out coffins? Sick."

"Exactly." Claire sighed, brushing hair out of her eyes. "Apparently the agent who died lived a very short time after they discovered what was wrong with him. Luckily, it is not a very communicable disease. If you haven't drunk the wine, you won't get it."

"Then I'm safe," I said. "Never did like Bordeaux."

"Yeah, more of a Pinot Noir man, myself," Bobby agreed.

I had noticed that none of us were drinking reds when wine was available. A teensy bit paranoid?

"Maybe we can make a few legitimate purchases at this auction. Really impresses chicks when a man knows his wine," Hobbes said.

"Which chicks would you be trying to impress?" Claire asked dryly. "I really have to get back to the lab for a few hours. Darien, how's your tattoo?"

I flipped my wrist over for her. "Just peachy, no needles in the foreseeable future." Only six red segments since I hadn't done much Quicksilvering since we'd left California.

"Good, keep it that way. I feel really nervous being this far away from prophylactic supplies."

"Okay, not even going to go there," I muttered but I couldn't keep a grin from spreading on my face. Maybe this fever was making me giddy.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Mulder." Hobbes pretended to smack me, "That's not what she meant."

"It just gives the expression French envelope a whole new meaning…" I started giggling, my belly aching with every chuckle.

"C'mon. Let's find something for you to do, laughin' Sal." Hobbes basically hauled me out of the chair and down the boulevard. We were on our way to check out the last place the cases of lethal Bordeaux had been stored, according to Desjardins and Clarons. Naturally, they'd been moved after the dying agent had given them the location, but Hobbes was still interested to see the place.

It was, as warehouses go, pretty average, along a waterfront, windows boarded up and a couple of graffiti tags for decoration. If it weren't for the French words on nearby billboards I would have thought we were in San Diego. Interpol had kindly given Hobbes a key for the lock on the door, so we walked right in. It was dark, gloomy and musty inside, but completely empty otherwise.

"Smells like a funeral parlor in here -- where they served a lot of booze." I wrinkled up my nose, the smell making my stomach do flip-flops.

"Hey…rotting roses and grape," Hobbes identified. He has impressive olfactory capabilities, a talent which he has been know to shove up my nose, so I was glad I mentioned it first. "Musta spilled some on the ground at some point."

"Good thing Claire says that stuff isn't lethal unless you swallow it," I agreed, glancing around for any broken glass or dark stains on the cement floor. "There, in the corner." We hadn't brought flashlights, but there was enough light spilling though a dirty paned window to highlight a shard of glass near the back wall.

"Don't touch it." Hobbes sniffed the glass, pointing to another a few feet away. "It looks like wine bottle glass. I'd get Claire and her…friend Jean-Claude to come in here and get a couple samples."

"I gotta get some air." I trot walked out of the place, taking huge gulps of fresh smelling air. The wind was coming off the Seine and I closed my eyes, letting the breeze blow through my hair. What the heck was wrong with me? My stomach was as touchy as a newborn baby's, my right side ached if I did anything more than just sit still, and the mild but persistent fever made me feel spacey like I had to concentrate really hard to follow anyone's conversation. Not what I wanted right now. I didn't feel really sick, just not completely healthy.

"You okay, Fawkes?" Hobbes looked up at me with concern, flipping his cell phone closed.

"Smell was getting to me," I replied honestly.

"Well, the Keep'll be along pronto. I'll wait here for 'em if you want to go back to the hotel."

"Nah, I'll stick around. When are we due at the Georges Cinq?" I leaned as casually as possible against the rough exterior of the warehouse, willing the ache in my groin to subside. The aspirin I'd taken before breakfast had worn off by now, but it had really helped the fever for a few hours. Nothing helped the damn bruise any, and I was more than tired of it.

"I think it starts up around six." Bobby narrowed his eyes, watching the barges out on the river. "When I was here the first time, I had to sneak on board on of those things and overpower the Captain…"

I let Hobbes' tale of life undercover in the CIA wash over me, half zoned out until Claire and a short, roly-poly kind of guy with a mustache like a single line from an eyeliner pencil above his narrow top lip arrived in a _deux-Chevaux_ car. Those are the cars that look like they're made from a single sheet of corrugated metal stretched over a VW bug frame and then stapled in place. The standard joke is that they're so lightweight that you could pick one up by the bumper and lift it into a parking place.

Bobby had no worries about Claire's affections straying in Dr. Renaud's direction. He looked a lot like that guy who plays Hercule Poirot on the Agatha Christie mysteries.

"Oh, Bobby!" Claire exclaimed when we'd shown her the broken glass, "This is fantastic. The odor is really prevalent right here. What a find." She turned to her French counterpart who didn't seem to speak a lot of English. " _Beaucoup de vin et verre brise ici."_ She pointed and he began to carefully bag the glass and take scrapings from the stained area.

 _"Tres bien, tres bien,"_ he muttered practically bouncing in place with excitement.

"Claire," I said, trying to breathe through my mouth because the smell was even worse the second time. "If you already have live samples of the stuff, what good is it to take these-uh-old ones?"

"To prove that this is the same wine," Hobbes answered sensibly.

"Yes, that and to study the bacteria under a number of different environments. How long did it survive on the cold floor? Does it mutate under the right conditions? It's all terribly fascinating," she crowed.

I hadn't seen Claire this excited since she discovered another nasty bacteria which had mutated with the Quicksilver gland and could go invisible. That discovery could not have gone more wrong. I hoped her experiments in the microbiology world would have a better outcome this time.

 

**************


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More shenanigans in Paris

Part Two—It Takes an Invisible Thief

**************

Since we didn't have any plans for the rest of the afternoon, Hobbes went to hang out in the lab with Claire and Jean-Claude while I went back to the hotel and took a siesta. Is there a French equivalent for that word? Whatever you call it, I was dragging.

"Fawkes." Hobbes' voice penetrated the haze, but it took me a while to respond.  
"Get up, we gotta get dressed, and it always takes you forever."

"I'm up --sort of." I bit down on my tongue long enough to manage a sitting position. My lower half felt like something inside was trying to come out, right through the skin. It hurt even to think about it.

"You look wasted." Hobbes reached out, tipping my chin up so he could look in my eyes. "What's going on?" the concern on his face hurt almost as much as my groin.

"I must be comin' down with something, Bobby, I feel like shit."

"This is getting worse, I'm gonna go get Claire." He turned to leave, but I shot out a hand to stop him.

"Hobbes, man, I'm not an invalid, no matter what the rest of you sometimes think, I can take my own aspirin and flu concoctions."

"You think that's what you got, the flu?" Hobbes asked, backing up slightly. He always thinks I'll give him whatever I have. I don't know why, in the just over two years I've know him, Hobbes hasn't ever had a cold or flu.

"Yeah, what's your secret weapon anyway? You never get sick." I gathered myself together and stood, walking over to the bathroom.

"Echinacea, my friend." Bobby grinned proudly. "I take it all the time cause it ain't a good idea to mix some of those over the counter potions with the meds I take every day." He rummaged around in his suitcase, hauling out a bag full of prescription drugs and other bottles of pills. He selected a bottle decorated with pretty purple flowers and shook out a couple. "Here, take two every couple hours. It helps boost the immune system. And I still think you better tell Keepie or we'll never hear the end of it."

"Yes, sir, Dr. Hobbes. I'll just grab a quick shower." I took the proffered capsules, closing the bathroom door.

"You've never managed that in your lifetime, pal!" he yelled through the door. I had to grin, until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hobbes wasn't kidding. I looked like I'd been on a three week bender; pale, slightly greenish and sweating. It would take a lot more than a shower and two aspirin to make me presentable, but I could only work with what I had.

By the time both of us were dressed in elegant suits, as Claire had specified, I was feeling somewhat more alive. Hobbes was wearing a black suit that made him look like a waiter, in my opinion, whatever that was worth, in some swanky French bistro. He had a dark wine colored shirt and a black tie. Doing the Regis thing again.

I had less of a choice so I donned the gray cashmere suit again and dressed it up with a blue and gray striped tie out of Bobby's vast collection.

"You ready for this, Fawkesy?" Hobbes raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I'm prepared to take on the bad guys now," I boasted. What I wasn't prepared for was the intervention, as Hobbes called it, when I opened the door to the hall.

"Sit down, Darien, I want to examine you," Claire said firmly, the fire in her blue eyes brooking no argument.

"Hey, I just got dressed," I whined, not wanting her to see how nasty the bruise was looking. I directed my displeasure at my so-called partner. "You called her while I was in the shower, didn't you? Traitor."

"Hey, just watching out for your interests." Hobbes held up his hands in surrender.

"You mean the Fat Man's, cause if I can't Quicksilver, we don't get the job done, huh?" I said sourly, but Claire was already guiding me over to a chair. She sat me down hard enough to send waves of pain up my belly, jolting alive the nausea that had abated since lunch.

"What's this about not being able to Quicksilver?" she repeated with alarm.

"Just bein' hypothetical, Claire, I musta caught the flu on the plane. It's nothing."

"I'll be the judge of that." She pushed a thermometer into my mouth and clamped her fingers around my wrist to count my pulse. I'm not sure how long it takes aspirin to bring down a fever, but they were extra-strength and they had better have done their job.

"What have you taken?" she asked when she finally retrieved the thermometer and peered at the tiny numbers.

"Aspirin and Echinacea," I replied, trying to be the cooperative little patient.

"Your temperature is 99.8, and your pulse is fast. You should stay here and get some rest." She ran gentle fingers along my jaw, feeling for swollen lymph nodes, ending the examination with a caress along my cheek. God, she could be so sweet and so exasperating at the same time. "Any other symptoms? You haven't been eating much, I'm not blind."

"So, I don't have much of an appetite," I wheedled. "This is no different that any other Joe Public goin' to work with a flu. That's why the drug stores of full of Nyquil. Claire, I have to be able to case that place before tomorrow night. I can't just steal the grail cold, there is a little planning involved."

"The kid's got a point."

"Thank you, Benedict Arnold," I snarked. "Come on, the cold shrimp will be getting warm if we wait much longer."

"I'm not happy about this." Claire frowned, "I wish I could take a few blood samples…"

"Not tonight." I held the door open for her, ushering them both out into the hall, "I need my blood. Stick me all you want tomorrow, right before the gig. Give me a counteragent booster and knock yourself out, what's another needle?"

"You joke, Darien, but this could be serious. We don't always know how your system reacts to a new…"

I've heard it all before. Nobody knew what the gland did to my-take your pick-immune system, circulatory system, respiratory system…it went on forever. I'm a unique, walking, talking experiment. If I weren't top-secret, Claire could be writing volumes on the effects of Quicksilver on that quintessential lab rat, Darien G. Fawkes. I could be famous, if I only lived so long, which at this point, was a long shot.

Like movie stars at some awards show, we exited our cab in from of the Georges Cinq Hotel with an honest to goodness red carpet and paparazzi hanging around the sidewalk with cameras. An uniformed hotel toady directed us to an upper floor where the private parties were held. The elevator opened up onto a large reception area leading on to several large rooms filled with the rich and famous. I kept expecting Robin Leach to start describing the décor in his loud, brash Aussie accent.

"There you are!" Lady Gemma swooped down on us, giving out hugs. "I was beginning to worry." Her dark hair was like a cloud of curls around her tiny face and a deep blue cocktail dress sparkling with silvery beads echoed the color of her eyes.

"Darien's come down with a bug," Claire said by way of explanation. Standing next to her friend, they looked like a contrast study in beauty-Gemma so tiny, dark and intense in jewel like colors, Claire tall, elegant and pale, dressed in a long slim slip dress of iridescent lavender silk.

"Anything serious?" The expression on the Duchess's face was so like Claire's was when we were back at the hotel I backed away in consternation.

"Not you, too."

"Didn't Lovey tell you?" she laughed, sweet and tinkly like the little fairy she resembled. "I'm a surgeon."

"Well, doctor, it's been concluded that I'll live, and nothing internal needs to be removed," I proclaimed, lying through my teeth. I could think of several things I'd like to have removed, and for once the gland wasn't first on the list. Half my intestines were on fire and I'd gladly live on a liquid diet if somebody could stop the pain.

"Oh, you're in trouble now, buddy-boy," Hobbes laughed. "You have two of 'em after you!"

"Robert." Gemma pointed out the Duke a few feet away at the bar, "Dennys is over there with his friend Lord Sommervale."

Hobbes moved off into the crowd to intercept the duke, snagging a couple of hors d'oerves from a circulating waitress on the way.

"Does everyone you know have a title?" I asked only half joking.

"Well, it used to be that we could just loll about in court, having affairs with the junior members of the royal family, but alas we have to work for a living now." Gemma snagged a glass of something bubbly from a passing waiter and held it out to me. "So, we're just everywhere. In London, you can't ride the underground without bumping into Marquis and Counts riding in to their nine to fives. Why even Claire here…"

"That looks like Princess Michael! " Claire exclaimed loudly over the Duchess's ramblings. "She's related to Queen Elizabeth." She explained to me before dragging her friend off for an introduction.

Left to my own devices to ponder what Lady Gemma had been about to reveal, I took a sip of the drink I'd been given. Soda water. Good for what ails you, my Grandmother uses to say. Settles the stomach. Most of the time anyway. Frankly, putting anything near my stomach wasn't a pleasant idea at that moment, which was going to be a real problem since I was officially the designated wine taster of our little gang. Good thing the whole point of wine tasting is to swirl and spit.

I registered for the three of us at a little table manned by a sweet-faced old woman in a lemon chiffon dress bedecked with a plethora of frothy ruffles. After checking us off on an official list, she handed me tickets for the wine tasting and a beautifully photographed auction catalogue. On the cover was the most garish jewel encrusted chalice I'd ever seen. My first look at the object I'd been sent to steal.

There was no blurb on the inside cover as to size or weight of the ugly thing, but if it was of an average size for chalices--if there was such a thing--it was probably close to twelve inches high. It was also probably pretty heavy, with all the gold and jewels, not to mention the little hidden chamber with the computer chip. I would Quicksilver it to remove it from the display area, but where to put it after that? I couldn't keep it Quicksilvered indefinitely. I needed a secure hiding place. I also really wanted to scope out the pedestal it would be placed on and where any video surveillance and alarms might be located. It was a little like my fantasy heist from the Louvre.

"Fawkes." Hobbes intercepted my meander through the guests towards the alcove leading to the next room. "I talked to Lord Sommervale. He didn't have a whole lot of information. Two mooks came in and bought enough grapes to make 60 gallons which equals 35 cases of wine."

"Which is?" I asked looking down at him. He'd removed the little butterfly bandages from the top of his head and the wound was barely noticeable anymore except for a faint bruising around the cut,

"Twelve bottles to a case," Hobbes supplied, stopping one of the waiters to load up on hors d'oerves.

"Hellova lot of bacteria," I said disgusted. "Any names? Descriptions?" I felt like we were up against a nameless entity.

"The French equivalent of Joe Smith," Hobbes grunted, filling his mouth with tiny rounds of French bread topped with caviar and sun dried tomatoes. "These're good. Jean Blanc and Emil Chan."

"That's Chinese," I pointed out.

"I guess," Hobbes conceded. "But they were French, spoke French."

"So Chinese-French. That's some kind of description."

"Yah, but his Lordship couldn't tell me more than they were two short guys with dark hair, one of 'em balding."

"Sounds like you." I grinned evilly.

"I don't speak French." He looked with disappointment at his empty plate. "You want any? I could get more."

"Not hungry," I replied honestly. "But knock yourself out." While Hobbes was filling up on more treats, I cracked the spine on the auction catalogue, turning the pages slowly. Glossy pictures of wine bottles seduced the eye, each promising to be the most magnificent glass of fermented grape you'd ever had in your entire life. There were short paragraphs describing the wine in colorful, overblown praise with those little phrases people like to throw around in snobby restaurants. "It has a charming impertinence. A subtle bouquet with an aftertaste of peaches." Who the hell gets paid to write tripe like that? And each paragraph was translated into three languages, so everyone could appreciate the hyperbole.

"That the catalogue?" Hobbes had returned with a plateful of little puff pastries and tiny eclairs. "Where's the page for Chateau Crane Noir Bordeaux?"

I located the correct one, smoothing open the catalogue so he could see. There was a richly lit photo of the same bottle the Official had shown us and a close up of the label with a castle depicted in black. Below, we read a florid description of a full-bodied fruity wine with a hint of oak and vanilla and a redolent bouquet of roses. No mention that one drink could infect you with a deadly meningitis, but I guess these things don't have to reveal the whole truth.

"Bingo." Hobbes tapped a finger on the picture. "Who's claiming ownership of the stuff."

Suddenly I couldn't breathe, bile rising in my throat, and it had nothing to do with my flu symptoms. The first name on the list was Huiclos de Thiel. I swallowed with difficulty, close to throwing up.

"Arnaud," Hobbes spit out the name. We both knew that Huiclos de Thiel was imprisoned in Southern California. There was no way he could be involved in an operation like this one. It had to be his brother Arnaud, my archenemy.

It was truly a weird experience to have an archenemy, as if I was one of the X-men or something. In a way I guess I was kind of a mutant at that. I could go invisible, and at the moment, anyway, as far as I knew, Arnie was permanently see-thru due to a malfunction in the gland he'd implanted in himself. We weren't exactly your usual agents. There was also the fact that I had long ago vowed to kill Arnaud, the Swiss Miss Mother Fucker, for the murder of my brother Kevin. This latest evidence of Arnaud's evil activities just supplied more fuel for the fire.

"Fawkes? Fawkes?" Hobbes' voice was pitched low, but increasingly more concerned with each repetition of my name, and I realized he'd said it several times. There was a whirling sound in my ears and I was really unstable on my feet.

"Let's get him out on the balcony." The Duke's voice was level with my ear and between the two of them they propelled me outside, where a rush of fresh night cooled air forced me to take a deep breath. "Sit down with your head between your knees.

"Stay with him, I've got to get Claire."

I could hear Bobby saying, but there was a hand on my neck keeping my head down and I just concentrated on breathing for a moment.

"Darien?" Claire appeared a moment later, fear on her face, which didn’t coordinate well with her elegant dress and upswept hair. "What happened?"

"I just got light headed for a minute, Claire, nothing to worry about." I looked around at the four of them, comically crowded around me on the narrow balcony. We must have been more than ten stories above the Paris streets. I bet in the U. S. hotels wouldn't have been able to have an open balcony due to overstringent safety laws. "You're all blowing this out of proportion."

"Yeah, okay, you're still sufferin' from jet lag, huh?" Hobbes said tightly, the rolled up auction catalogue in one hand. "I have to go make a phone call to…" He realized the Lancasters were still standing next to him, and revised what he was going to say. "Our boss, Charlie Borden."

"Good idea, Bobby, and we'll get Darien to eat something," Claire agreed. She was shivering, I could see goose bumps on her fair skin even in the dim light.

"Let's go back inside, I'm getting cold," I lied, cause in fact, I must be feverish again, the cool air felt great on my face.

"Did you do any blood tests on him, Claire?" Gemma asked when we'd all claimed a small table near the now closed balcony door and the Duke had gone off to find me a plate of food I knew I didn't want to eat.

"No, more's the pity." She frowned. "Bobby told me the name in the catalogue," she said carefully.

"Uh-yeah, I wasn't prepared to see that," I answered lamely, feeling totally stupid for reacting that way. "But we know it's just a cover name for Arnaud--one of our competitors," I added for Gemma's sake.

"He's put a fake name in the catalogue?" She pursed her perfect bow lips, "Quite unsportsmen like. You have suspicions about this man. What is his name?"

"Darien, Lady Gemma would be a good person to enlist for help," Claire said quietly. "In case there is…an outbreak….she's on the board of a private clinic."

"You have more layers than an onion." I looked at the tiny surgeon and Duchess.

"Well, one has to find things to occupy one's time," she answered, her hand gentle on my wrist. I wasn't fooled, she was taking my pulse. "This is an interesting tattoo." She stroked the snake just once with a manicured nail. "An ourobros. It seems to change color."

"What makes you say that?" Claire asked, sounding strangled. She took a quick gulp of the wine to cover her confusion just as the Duke arrived back with what looked to me like enough food to feed a starving nation.

"Yesterday it was only half red and half green." Gemma smiled like a Cheshire cat, "And today there are…" She counted quickly. "Seven red spaces and only three green ones."

I almost always wore a watch directly over the tattoo to hide it's more unusual properties, and no one had ever mentioned that they'd noticed the color change before. However, with the time change and my less than perfect functioning brain, I'd forgotten to reset the watch. Since it displayed the wrong time, I just hadn’t put it on.

"Gemma is fascinated with tattoos," Dennys mentioned, chewing on a giant prawn. "She wishes she were a plastic surgeon, I do believe."

"That or a tattoo artist," Gemma agreed. "Who inked this one?"

"I did," Claire admitted.  
"Now who has the hidden layers," The Duchess teased lightly. "You always had an artistic flair. Are you really just a chemist for the wine industry, or are you his physician?"

"I have an unusual condition." I picked at a puff pastry, finally putting half in my unwilling mouth to give myself something to do.

"I do have more than one degree," Claire said, "Which is why I missed the ten year reunion, I was studying medicine. I usually do research, but I have to keep my skills up because Darien needs…"

"Si vous plait, les vins sont pret pour les degustateurs," (Please, the wines are ready for tasting,) a man in a tuxedo announced over a small hand held mike, motioning towards the room I'd originally intended to check out before Bobby had intercepted me.

For some irrational reason the French announcement reminded me of all those shots of croupiers in gambling movies calling _"Fait vos jeux._ " Or Make your play. That was what I was supposed to be doing, playing at being a wine taster and I was on.

"We have to go check out the plonk." I gestured at the crowd surging for the other room.

"Are you sure you're up to it?" Claire whispered.

"It's what I get paid for. I really need to see the layout of that room, Keepie." I gave her my patented puppy dog eyes that Bobby says never fail to reduce a woman to mush.

"I adore wine tasting." The Duchess stood and claimed my arm. Her head barely came up to the knot in my tie, but I didn't mind having her attached to me in the least. The Duke held out his arm to Claire, leading the way.

A Sommelier was busily pouring small shots of deep red wine into hand blown glasses that reflected the overhead lights like soap bubbles. Gemma muscled her way to the front of the crowd, using her title to get us glasses before some others who had been waiting longer. Glancing around, I imitated the actions of the more serious tasters. They'd take a mouthful of wine, pucker their lips, swish and swirl like patients at the dentist's and then spit the wine into silver spittoons placed strategically around the room. Not too complicated, as long as I didn't get a swig of Chateau Crane Noir Bordeaux.

Turns out, nobody was offering that particular vintage, but the Lancasters declared the '99 Volnay Caillerets one of the best Pinot Noirs they'd had in a long time.

Strolling around the room while waiting for my next splash of vino, I scoped out the location for tomorrow's heist. There was a pedestal erected in the center of the floor, highlighted with a single over head spotlight, but there was nothing yet to admire. Only a small placard with the usual museum style account of the missing grail's merits. Except, to my mind, it had none. Just the stupendously ugly repository of a hideous recipe for death. There was no place to immediately stash the bauble after I Quicksilvered it, meaning I had to walk back out into the room that would be crowded with diners and dancers with the hot property. I couldn't see any extra security measures, which alarmed me. Were they just asking for the damned thing to be stolen? A lowly video camera in one corner of the room was no problem, since I would be invisible when I snatched the thing, but I needed somewhere to hide the loot…

A circulating waiter came by with the latest sample, a rich bodied Silver Oak Cabernet from Napa Valley. Not that I acknowledged the flavor any, I absently sipped half a molecule and spit it out immediately. My stomach was queasy enough as it was. Claire looked like she really liked that one, though. She and the Duchess were taking notes in the margin of their auction catalogue with a purple pen.

A Cotes du Rhones with the weird name of Parallele 45 was sampled and several people in the room were heard to say it had an earthy quality with a spicy flavor of black pepper and stewed fruit. Okay, maybe some people did talk that way, after all, although the glint in the Duchess's eyes showed me she was having an awful lot of fun listening to all the exaggeration. I nodded sagely, swishing like the best of them and proclaimed that a '98 Tuscany Chianti was spicy with aromatics of cranberry. In truth, it made me want to gag, but it seemed to impress some of the other tasters. There were oohs and aahs every time a new vintage was poured but my head was pounding, and I was glad for the distraction of Hobbes' return.

"Bobby," Claire cried, "Care for a taste of aged oak and apple?" She held out a glass of garnet colored Merlot. "It's a Californian wine."

"Sounds like something you’d start a fire with." Hobbes made a face, "I got something aged in a stump from the bartender." He held out his shot of aged whiskey. "Got a minute, Fawkes?"

"Sure." We escaped the crush of grape lovers, going back to the table with the nearly untouched platter of food. Bobby was more than happy to sample the fare.

"Hey, I didn't try one of these before!" he declared, stuffing a dolma into his mouth.

"Are you storing up for the winter?" I asked in distaste, "I haven't ever seen you eat like this before. What did the 'Fish say?"

"Just indulging in the French cuisine, Julia." Hobbes wiped his hands on a napkin.

"Dolmas are Greek," I pointed out. "Any news?"

"Talked to Eberts--he pounced on the intel about de Thiel like the little terrier he is, and ran with it. I need to call 'em back in a couple hours," Hobbes replied. "Fish says to stay with the original plan, although if we were to happen to find out where the cases are stored ahead of time, he's not adverse to a little larceny, if you get my drift."

"Indubitably, Ollie." I did my best Stan Laurel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man separate himself from a group at the bar and head out of the room for the elevators. "Hobbes," I hissed to get his attention away from the stuffed mushrooms, "Chinese-Frenchman at nine o'clock."

"Then go cellophane and follow 'em!" he managed with a full mouth, checking his holstered gun at the same time.

Luckily for me, there were still enough people around the registration table to cause a bottleneck at the exit, which slowed down my prey. Going invisible in a room full of people was more of a problem, but right near the door was a small screen to hide the large dishpans full of discarded plates and forks. I slipped behind it, letting the icy cold layer of Quicksilver cover my body until I was invisible to the naked eye. So protected, I sidled past the lemon chiffon hostess and made it to the elevator just as the doors were sliding closed.

The small car was crowded with partygoers in good moods, all laughing and talking loudly. I tried to sidle to one side, keeping my eye on the man possibly known as Emil Chen. He had all his hair, meaning one Jean Blanc must be the balding guy-where ever he might be.

 _"C'est froid ici._ " A woman in a tight red beaded dress standing next to me shivered, taking her escort's arm.

I couldn't help it. Apparently I give off waves of cold when I'm Quicksilvered sorta like those cold spots in old houses where ghosts lurk. Maybe if I made a few spooky noises I could scare everybody off the elevator, cause if anybody else got on they'd be standing on my shoe.

Luckily, Emil got off on the third floor and I followed, brushing past Miss Red Dress, making her squeal with the sudden chill. We only had a short walk before Emil took out his room key and inserted it into the lock on 325. Before he could turn the key, the door opened, revealing a short balding man with the worst ferret face since Frank Burns on MASH. An angular, narrow nose rose like the prow of a ship over his pinched mouth. He had little beady eyes that bore into Emil with distaste. And unfortunately for my tenth grade French, they both spoke far too quickly in the local language for me to follow more than a few words.

I caught _vin, Rue Tunisie_ and M. De Thiel. The last one wasn't at all hard for me to translate--Arnuad. Could he be here in Paris? Thinking about it, Arnaud probably didn't even have to pay for a plane ticket, being invisible and all. He could just stroll on with the other passengers and take an empty seat in first class.   
Emil went into room 325 with Jean, but they were too far away for me to follow. Bobby was probably freakin' by now, anyways, wondering where I'd gone. He can be a real worry-wort sometimes. I let the Quicksilver flake off, checking my tattoo by habit. I was real close to needing a shot. There were two spaces left, and my head was beginning to hum, pressure building up inside the gland until it made me crazy just thinking about what could happen if I didn't get the shot. Time to find my keeper, and hope she'd packed a syringe of blue Kool-Aid in her beaded evening bag. Counteragent--it accessorized well with everything I wore.

 

As expected, Hobbes was pacing like a tiger in a too small cage when I emerged from the elevator back on the tenth floor.

"Darien!" he greeted heartily. "Where you been? We thought you'd skipped out on us." He led the way back to the little table we'd staked as our own. Gemma and Claire were still hunched over their auction catalogue, pointing out the best buys to Dennys. "See anyone you know downstairs?"

"Hobbes, you'll be happy to know our friends are staying in this very hotel--and they may have brought an old acquaintance along with them."

"Arnaud?" he whispered just before we sat down.

I nodded.

"Uh, Claire?" I tried to think of a casual way to ask about the counteragent. "Did you…?" My wrist was just below the edge of the table, but she caught a good enough look to understand what I wanted. It was hard to maintain civility when I was so close to psychopathic behavior.

"Are you ready to leave then, Darien?" She smiled sweetly, picking up her purse to indicate she had the goods. "Maybe Bobby could go get the cab?"

"May I see?" Gemma was too quick and too observant. She grabbed my wrist and ran her thumb over the tattoo again, a slight bemused smile on her face. "This is the oddest tattoo I've ever seen. I can't even guess how it changes color every few hours."

"It's Darien's condition--a skin condition," Claire lied.

I've been told I'm not exactly a pro at lying despite my former occupation. My grandmother contends it's a genetic thing, that my Mother couldn't lie either, but Claire was worse than both of us put together.

I'd long ago learned that the pain from oncoming QSM blots out whatever other pain I might have. My headache was growing so intense I didn't even notice my guts anymore. To cover my razor edge nerves I started eating the leftover profiteroles on Claire's plate, needing to get my shot before I exploded in front of the cream of European society.

"Listen, can we talk about this later?" I asked with gritted teeth.

Hobbes was poker-faced, but knew the immediacy of the situation. "Thinkin' of leavin' on the red eye, Fawkes?" he asked seriously.

"Anytime," I answered.

"I get the distinct impression that Darien needs to be elsewhere, Darling," Dennys said dryly, buttoning his charcoal silk jacket and tucking the old school tie back inside the V of his suit coat. "Shall we be on our way as well, then?"

"I'm just frightfully curious. A dangerous habit, I know." Gemma still held my wrist in her tiny palm, she gave me a gentle squeeze before letting go. Despite the madness trying to crowd all sense out of my rational mind, I was touched. "Take care of yourself, you have a fever,"

"You make my temperature rise, Duchess." I smiled thinly, popping another profiterole between my lips in a rather suggestive motion, letting it stay half in and half out before I swallowed it whole. "And in my condition, that could be dangerous."

"For me or for you, Sweet Darien?" She gathered up a gossamer shoulder wrap, leaning over my head to give Claire a quick buss on the cheek. "Wonderful to see you, Lovey, let's get together soon and chat."

"We'll see you tomorrow evening," Hobbes said pointedly, taking his 'wife's' arm. "Dennys, thanks for the introduction. Very important contact. Coming, Claire?"

Not in the mood for social niceties, I stalked away from the table, threading my way through the thinning crowd of wine enthusiasts. I bumped the shoulder of a vaguely familiar movie actor, but didn't even stop to say sorry.

"Anytime." The Duke bobbed his head. "G'night, Claire."

"Good night," she replied automatically, torn and unhappy to have to lie so blatantly to her friends, especially to Gemma, a remarkably astute woman.

I was punching the down button to call the elevator even before the other two had completely detached themselves from the Lancasters. "I need that shot now or the ride in the cab won't be very comfortable for the two of you," I snarled when they'd joined me. Remarkably, no one else entered the elevator and the doors slid closed, leaving the three of us alone.

"Bobby?" Claire commanded. As if they'd rehearsed the interaction ahead of time, Hobbes nodded curtly, hitting the stop button with a stiff forefinger. The old car shuddered violently then stopped abruptly between the fifth and sixth floor. "Roll up your sleeve, Darien," the Keeper directed, her whole demeanor completely different than the giggling girl who'd conferred with the duchess over her favorite wines.

"You like bossin' me around, don't you?" I growled, the madness so close I had the nasty urge to bash the pretty blond doctor's head in and make a break for it. Hobbes jerked my jacket off, pushing up my Egyptian cotton shirtsleeve when I didn't do it quickly enough.

Claire held up one of those ubiquitous huge honkin' horse needles she likes to use for Quicksilver, flicking her finger on my arm to raise a vein. I don't know why I can't ever get a shot with the small kind most other doctors use.

"Can it, Gland boy. Just let her give you the juice." Hobbes pushed me hard enough to back me up against the back wall of the car.

"I don't have to listen to you…"

The needle jabbed into my arm with a sharp bite, the counteragent flushing out the madness with a suddenness that left me light headed.

"Thanks, Claire," I managed, the elevator's abrupt downward movement threatening my unsteady balance. I held on to the waist high railing, waiting for the woozy feeling to dissipate. That had been cutting it too close.

"We need to find out if Blanc and Chen are registered in the hotel or if those are aliases." I tried to push away the mental cloudiness that always lingered after a dose of counteragent, exiting the elevator.

"Darien, you're worn out," Claire clucked, tucking the capped syringe back into her evening bag.

"He's right." Hobbes sighed, looking at me with a sigh. "We know where they are right now. Can't lose our only lead so soon. What you got in mind, buddy?"

"I'll mosey on over to the desk and take a peek at the computer at the registration desk." I pointed. This late at night there was only a lone hotel employee stationed at the long counter and he looked bored out of his mind, flipping aimlessly through a copy of _Paris Match_ which featured a picture of Britney Spears on the cover.

"Good thinkin', Sherlock," Bobby said, looking impressed at my initiative. There'd been a time when I let him do all the detective work and I just did the invisible slide, but we worked more as equal partners these days. "Think you can figure out the computer in French?"

 _"Piece de gateau,"_ I quipped, looking around for a convenient place to Quicksilver. "A computer is a computer."

"Do your thing, Fawkes, we'll keep the guy at the counter busy," Hobbes said confidently, taking Claire's arm and weaving somewhat drunkenly over to the desk.

Ducking into the men's room just off the lobby, I took a minute to collect my somewhat addled wits, biting back a groan when I had to use the facilities. Damn, my insides hurt. I let the Quicksliver flow before exiting the stall and discovered a new use for the residual coldness whenever I was see-thru. It numbed the pain! I was never as cold as say Bobby might be if I'd used the QS on him too, because of some built in protection my own body chemistry gave me. Bobby says he feels icy the few times he's joined me in the world invisible, Eberts said the same thing. For me, it's just a minor chill that I can ignore cause I'm usually busy with spy work and all.

So, I was see-thru for the second time in just under an hour, and I still hadn't fully recovered from the last time. Hobbes and Claire were arguing with the desk clerk in a wild tangle of English and French, keeping his attention away from the computer terminal at the far end of the counter.

I typed in _chambre 325_ and bingo, the information scrolled up nice as you please. Even my poor French was enough to understand that the room was registered to Paul LeBon and Etienne Fong. What kind of name is Etienne? But obviously they'd been using aliases--the question was which were their correct names?

I quickly Quicksilvered a pen and paper, copying down the addresses and credit cards listed on the screen as the battling Bickersons finished their little scene with the desk guy and walked out angrily to the cabstand. I followed them, letting the Quicksilver flake off as I twirled through the revolving door. What a night.

 

*******************

 

I was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep, caught between the aftereffects of the counteragent and the now howling pain on the lower right side of my guts. I curled up in my bed, fetal style, sweating out the fever, trying to will the pain away. Never did have much will power. Sudden movement in my intestinal tract sent me scrambling for the bathroom, making it to the porcelain throne just as I started to hurl.

Just fantastic. I hadn't even figured out a way to properly smuggle the grail out of the Georges Cinq and I was going to be a basket case in the morning. Not enough sleep, too little food and sick as a dog. I'll always remember Paris--hunched over the toilet pukin' up my insides. Never should have eaten those profiteroles.  
"You okay, Fawkes?" Hobbes must have flipped on the bedside light, he was backlit, standing in the door of the dark bathroom, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Want me to get the Keep?"

"I've been doing this since I was a baby, Hobbesy." I took a careful breath, but nothing else threatened to come up. "Got a glass of water on you?"

"Great thing about hotels." Hobbes unwrapped one of the little glasses on the counter and filled it with what the French call eau. "Everything right at your fingertips."

"We're going to have to tell the Duke and Duchess," I said, sipping the water slowly. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm in no condition to do this on my own. I gotta have more back up."

"Get back to bed. At least we can talk about this in comfort." Hobbes hoisted me to a standing position, his hand on the small of my back as we made it back to our respective mattresses. "That duchess is one smart cookie. The Duke is a quieter guy, but he ain't exactly stupid. They know somethin's goin' down," he agreed, tucking me in with a flick of the covers up under my chin.

"I need someplace to stash the…uh…stash." I fumbled for two more aspirin from the bottle on the bedside table. "There's no place to put it in that room."

"What about one of them spittoons?" Hobbes asked thoughtfully.

"As long as it's not full of regurgitated grape juice." I made a face, the image too close to what I had just done. "Otherwise that'd be perfect."

"I'll see what I can do." He nodded. I had total faith that Bobby could do what he set out to do. He may be neurotic and crazy as a loon at times, but he's the best-damned agent I know. I'd always worked solo as a thief, but I'd have been proud to have Bobby Hobbes at my back on any job--legitimate agency stuff or my own specialty, second story B and E. Hobbes always takes care of the details, but he still manages to take in the big picture.

"I talked to Eberts and then called Interpol after we got back here. When you were getting' ready for bed," Hobbes said, "They're gonna keep their eye on the Georges Cinq all night to make sure those two don't take a powder. But I gotta tell ya, I'm not too impressed with Desjardins and his lady partner--they didn't notice that broken glass and the smell in that warehouse."

"You think they're in on it or just clueless?" I asked sleepily, but I wasn't much in the mood for a long analysis of the professional ethics of the French secret service.

"Hard to say, partner, hard to say."

"If you can get one of those spittoons and we can somehow manage to get it out of the hotel…" I let the sentence drop, too tired to pick it up again. "Oh, man, I forgot!" I sat up too quickly, my lower right side protesting. Every pain receptor was screaming inside me and I had to wait to breathe or talk. "Damn."

"You okay?"

"Fine, Hobbes, just ignore it, please?"

His face told me he didn't want to but he honored my request. "What'd you forget, Fawkesie?" He asked gently.

"When I followed Chen or Fong or whatever the hell his name is, I heard the two of 'em talkin' before they went inside. I didn't get it all, but he said something about Rue Tunisie and Arnaud."

"You sure?" Hobbes' eyebrows would have hit his hairline it he'd had one.

"Okay, they said the name de Thiel--I assumed they meant our own Arnie."

"Okay, we can find out where this Tunisia Street is in the morning. Maybe that's where they've stashed the wine. I sure would love to get the drop on those mooks before any of that poison gets drunk."

"Me, too. And it bothers me that we haven't seen any sign of Arnuad."

"He ain't exactly easy to spot these days," Hobbes pointed out. "Could be using any kind of disguise. He fooled us, bein' Eberts."

Arnaud used a variety of Mission Impossible style face masks and skin gloves to appear visible, since he no longer could manage it on his own. I had to admit a certain curiosity about whether his gland was the one with a malfunction or was it mine? He couldn't be seen, but he didn’t go mad either.

Was one a trade off for the other?

"Isn't Tunisia where they filmed Star Wars?" Hobbes mused turning out the light.

"Yeah, and Life of Brian, too, I think," I agreed, looking up at the dark ceiling.

"Loved that flick." He laughed, quoting, "what's the wing velocity of an African Sparrow?"

"That's Holy Grail, Bobby." I smiled to myself.

"Oh, yeah--Brian was the one that got the Catholic Church all in a twist."

"Yep." I tried to find a comfortable position, hugging the extra pillow to my belly. Hobbes and Fawkes' crusade for the holy grail--part Monty Python and part Indiana Jones. I just hoped a big round boulder didn't roll down and crush me because I felt flattened already.

Morning came way too quickly for me and I was once again awakened by the sound of Hobbes in the shower. He was singing this morning, something awfully bouncy for my mood until I recognized the anthem of Life of Brian. "Always look on the bright side of life-de dum de dum…" Sung by Eric Idle as Brian and his fellow Pythoners were being crucified at the end of the movie. Maybe it was apropos after all.

I certainly felt like death warmed over, and was more than convinced that I had something other than a regular flu. Should I continue to hide it from Claire until after the heist or let her in on my secret? My side was inflamed, hard to the touch and sore beyond anything I'd felt in a long time. But hey, always look on the bright side of life--I was in Paris and preparing to take on one of the classiest gigs I'd ever been in on, and it was legit. No fear of being arrested or imprisoned.

Claire came barreling in when we were dressed, armed with _petit dejeuner_ as the French call breakfast, and a load of medical supplies under her arm.

"Thanks, Keepie." Hobbes accepted the rolls and café au lait while she spread her doctor equipment out on the chest of drawers.

"Claire, do we have to do this now?" I whined. "Hobbes and me need to go track down a possible hiding place for that wine and trail the two guys from the Georges Cinq. I'll feel all woozy if you take a couple pints."

"I won’t be taking a couple pints, Darien." She inspected my hand and arm for a vein. I get poked and injected so often I'm always covered with small bruises and tiny needle tracts. "Just enough for a blood count and blood culture. If you drink some orange juice you'll feel fine." She glanced up at my face, in full doctor mode. "You're warm, I don't even have to use a thermometer to know you're still running a fever. Any nausea? Vomiting?"

"All of it," I admitted with regret. "Listen, I just have to get through the rest of the day and then I can lie around and be sick while you and Bobby do the romantic tour of Paris."

"What makes you thing we'll be having a romantic interlude?" Claire tightened a rubber tourniquet around my bicep, just above the elbow.

"Kinda tight," I objected. "I've seen the looks you two give each other. All smootchy faced at the café yesterday….OWW!" I yelped as she viciously stabbed the needle into my vein, quickly filling two vials with my vital fluids.

"Darien, we were never smootchy faced." Claire neatly slapped a Band-Aid over the little wound. "And you're not going anywhere with Bobby this morning."

"I'd like to be smootchy…" Hobbes offered.

"Bobby!" Claire protested. "Enough of that."

"We're on a case, Claire. We have to chase down the bad guys," I argued, knowing I wasn't getting anywhere with her. She could be remarkably stubborn on occasion.

"Darien, you have a specific job to do—  
one that neither Bobby or I can even attempt. It's the whole reason we came to Paris, and I for one think it is a very important mission. Therefore, you need to be at your best this evening, and that means taking it easy for the rest of the day."

"All day?" I whined.

"Listen to her, pally, and don't argue with the little woman." Hobbes laughed.

Claire was busily sticking labels on the vials of blood she had just drawn, then storing then in a little plastic container. "I need to get these to Jean-Claude. I'm sure Bobby has things he needs to do this morning, as well. Then, the Duchess would like to meet us for lunch, the invitation included my husband." She smirked.

"Stuck inside the hotel room in Paris," I groused, but I got comfortable on the bed, with the pillow behind my back so I could watch some TV when Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes esquire left.

"Bobby Hobbes has lots of important intel to exchange with Interpol, not sure I'll be able to break away for lunch," Hobbes fudged, looking trapped. "You heard what Fawkes said, gonna be really busy without my partner along."

"Robert," Claire snapped, in almost exactly the same tone that the Official has been known to use. "We need to have a talk with Gemma and Dennys, you can play the dutiful hubby for a short while."

"You just said you never argue with her," I remarked.

"I never said never, and that wasn't arguing, I was statin' a fact," Hobbes defended himself, checking out his reflection in the mirror before leaving.

Hobbes has the unique ability to be rather an ordinary looking little bald guy, when the situation calls for it, or a classically handsome man with dark piercing eyes, a long straight nose and a balding pate with slightly curly brown hair. He was looking the latter this morning.

"Meet me in the lobby at 12:30, Bobby," Claire called to his sketchy wave as he disappeared out the door. She had packed away all her doctor supplies, but shook out two aspirin for me to take with a glass of water. "Do you have any symptoms you haven't divulged?"

"My belly aches," I said. _Okay, ache was a relative term._ More like white-hot lava burning holes in my intestines, but it was merely a question of semantics. I wasn't complaining or anything.

"Shouldn't be surprised," Claire agreed absently, sifting through her bag of drugs. "I'll give you something to settle your stomach so you can have a light lunch. Don't want your blood sugar to drop precipitously."

"Nooo, wouldn't want that." I accepted more pills and washed them down with more water. So far everything was staying where it was supposed to, but I didn't trust my digestive tract any longer.

"Here's a glass of orange juice, and a croissant, in case you're hungry." She placed everything on the table between the two beds, "The phone number of the lab is on this slip, and you know my cell, right?"

"I feel like the time I was nine and my mom couldn't get out of work, so she left me home when I had a tummy ache." I shooed her off. "Get going, Claire, I'll be all right."

"Oh, I never checked your temperature."

"I'm hot, believe me, but I'll live."

"How's the monitor?" she procrastinated.

"Since you gave me a shot less than twelve hours ago, it's fine." I held up my wrist for her to see.

"I have a theory that the stress of illness could put undue strain on the gland, increasing the time the Quicksilver builds up in your system, requiring additional counteragent," Claire rambled, "This is a perfect opportunity to test that…the other times you've been ill I wasn't paying as much attention to that aspect of the treatment. Maybe I should jot down a few notes, keep a detailed list of your temperature, how many segments are red on the tattoo…"

"Go, Claire, at this rate you'll miss your lunch with Lady Gemma."

"Oh, yes, of course. See you later!" she trilled.

I had to admit that I didn't mind the rest. I didn't have the energy to follow Bobby around all day, which can wear me out on the best of days. Back in the days when I stole for a living, I did usually sleep all day long and only eat a light meal before a gig. So, I mentally put myself back a few thousand light-years to that cat burglar who was reneging on his promise to his parole officer and stealing from San Diego's elite.

Yeah, those were the good ol' days. Hidin' out from the police, dealing with sleazy, lying fences and the usual criminal riff-raff. Believe me, not your best quality people. Oh, there were a few in the class of Remington Steele and Alexander Mundy--gentlemen thieves, of which I counted myself, but for the most part, the people I knew were scum.

Despite the constant stress from the threat of QSM and the damned gland, I was working with a better element these days. There wasn't the continual worry about getting arrested any more, and I liked what I did. Yeah, that's right, don't let it get around. Surprising amount of job satisfaction when you get the better of the bad guys. Not that I didn't miss the incredible adrenaline rush that a successful heist brought, but with the gland in my head the only thing I got with an adrenaline rush was invisible.

So, I bided my time, resting up for the big event tonight. We were gonna knock 'em dead, prevent that wine from falling into the wrong hands, round up the bad guys to keep Metropolis and Gotham City safe from the likes of Elmer Fudd and Charlie Chan, or Blanc and Fong…whatever their names were.

I located the TV remote in the drawer of the bedside table and pointed it at the 20-inch screen in the armoire. European TV has a wide array of channels in this modern age of satellites and international sales of TV shows. I recognized a couple American soaps, a chat show in French and that phenomenal world market hit, Baywatch. Unfortunately, it was ending just as I tuned in, so I flipped to the next channel. An all movie network was showing To Catch a Thief with Cary Grant and the future Princess of Monaco, Grace Kelly, in English. This was more like it. Style, class, a cool, well dressed blond and great burglary scenes. My kind of movie.

To please my doctor I sipped orange juice watching the movie, but the lure of sleep was too strong and I drifted off halfway through the picture. I began to dream a weird, convoluted half nightmare where I was on a quest for the Holy Grail with Indiana Jones, only Cary Grant wanted to steal it for Princess Grace. Somewhere along the line, I was sweating buckets, the pain in my guts so intense I thought I'd pass out. Suddenly, in the nonlinear way of dreams, a giant snake a la Alien burst out of my belly, snapping its tooth filled jaws. When it turned its head to bite me, the face looked like Arnaud.

I woke up with a jerk, my heart going ninety miles an hour. Bolting from the bed at a dead run, I just made it back to the toilet as the tiny bit I'd put down all day returned in a rush.

Oh man, this was not good. I resolved to tell Claire the truth--right after I stole the Unholy Grail. Resting my head against the cool tiled wall of the john, I contemplated getting up to shower and dress for the banquet. Hobbes would be back soon, as it appeared that I'd slept the better part of the day, and I thought it prudent to be dressed and ready ahead of time so I could rest up while he changed.

This was easier said than done. I was in reasonably good shape as long as I was sitting down and unmoving, but any bending, walking, or standing straight left me in agony. Great. This was going to add a whole new dimension to my career as an international thief. Hopefully, none of my mentors would be attending tonight's soiree, cause even after I had arrayed myself in the tuxedo Alex had purchased for me, I felt a dismal second best. Anyone with half a brain could see I wasn't feeling well.

It was then I remembered the painkillers Claire had once given me when I'd been knifed. When I'd packed the few things Alex would let me take from my own apartment, I'd included the whole Tupperware container full of meds from the cupboard. With any luck, there would still be a couple of Demerol in there. I'd be kinda high, but able to do my assigned job.

I found half a dozen of the little white pills, and downed two of them with a chaser of the little yellow Compazines Claire had given me earlier for nausea, and to top them off I took two of Bobby's Echinacea, just to hedge my bets. Never knew what would work. I stuck to water this time to wash them down since I was no longer on the best of terms with OJ.

Crossing my fingers that everything stayed down, I was just attempting to master the intricate origami of tying my bow tie when Bobby arrived, all pink cheeked from an afternoon with the lady doctor.

"I smell amour in the air," I commented, giving up on the tie.

"You don't know the half of it, my friend." Hobbes grinned foolishly, "We had a great time--after the ladies got through pokin' in half the shops of Paris. Galleries Lafayette and _Aux Primptemps_ -which the Duchess told me means springtime." He was quickly stripping down to his skivvies while he talked. "Kind of a weird name for a store, don't you think?"

"Yeah," I agreed, just to be supportive.

"Then we strolled through this big ol' park."

"Holding hands?" I smirked, the drugs making me giddy.

"Some holding of hands was done."

"And things of a more intimate nature?"

"Bobby Hobbes does not kiss and tell," he informed me righteously, grabbing up his dress shirt and slacks before going into the bathroom.

"Then there was kissing?" I yelled after him.

The TV was still on, To Catch a Thief replaced by a couple of other movies in the course of the afternoon, but when I focused on the action once more, Pierce Brosnan was planting one on Rene Russo. The remake of the Thomas Crown Affair. All right, more theft, this time in New York. The ending, where a man dressed like the bowler wearing figure in Magritte's painting of the _Man Who Wasn't There_ outsmarts the police, is truly a classic.

"Need some help with your tie?" Hobbes inquired.

I must have zoned out at some point, cause he was standing by the bed, now fully dressed in a Tuxedo with a long shiny slash of a lapel, buttoned over a dark green vest. His tie had the crisp bounce of a black satin bow on a birthday present.

"Not my strong suit." I held up my chin for him to perform a miracle. When I looked in the mirror, miracles had occurred. Not only was the tie presentable, but one of the drugs must have done some good, because I no longer had the pale faced look of a warmed over corpse, and I could walk upright without cringing.

"You all right, Fawkes?" Bobby asked.

"Sure, don't I look all right?" I lied.

"You look pretty good, except for the hair." He laughed, patting my do. " Lying around the hotel all day must have done you some good but d'ya think we could slick it down, just for the night?"

"No, this is my look, Hobbes. Nobody messes with the hair." I rechecked the mirror to ensure that my locks were indeed still standing at their usual disarray. Satisfied that I was looking mighty fine for a man with a temperature, I nodded. "Lemme take a couple aspirin before we leave," I added, making it seem like that was the only thing I needed to hold me together.

"Sure, I'll go see how long we have to wait for the Keeper." Hobbes went down the hall, appearing only seconds later with a true vision of loveliness.

Claire must be the fastest dressing woman on the planet, since she'd done it in the same time it had taken Hobbes to get into his duds. She was wearing a tight strapless blue satin corset thing I think is called a bustier, with a wide gathered skirt of princess silk with an intricate design of green, blue and gold. Her hair was twisted up with a beaded clip that repeated the same colors of the dress. I think she might have been wearing glass slippers like Cinderella.

"Wow, Claire, I feel like I should call you your highness, Countess Keeply or something."

The look that crossed her face was halfway between alarm and embarrassment. "What kind of tales has Gemma been filling your head with?" she replied briskly, feeling my forehead. "You must be delusional, you still have a fever."

"Very funny." I rolled my eyes, since I felt the best I had in several days.

"Have you been taking an anti-pyretic?" she asked in her doctor voice.

"A what?" Hobbes exclaimed.

"Tylenol, Bobby." She dimpled.

"Yes, Ma'am, Dr. Princess Keeply, ma'am." I saluted her, opening the door for the pseudo newlyweds.

"You know I have ways to hurt you," she warned with a twitch of her finger. "But I'm glad to see you feeling so much better."

"Me, too," I agreed, hopping this kind of out of body euphoria lasted until I snatched the damn chalice, so I could collapse with my dignity and pride intact. Not an easy thing to do, I assure you.

In the cab on the way to the Georges Cinq, Hobbes explained that he'd accompanied Desjardins and Clarons to check out Rue Tunisie, and they had found a large warehouse owned by de Phon Enterprises, which made my guts twist in the good old fashioned way of anger, not the same as the way they'd been feeling the last few days.

"So, that pretty much proves Arnaud has his dirty invisible fingers stirring things up." I leaned back against the car seat, staring out at the lights of the city. In the distance, I could see the Eiffel Tower twinkling with little red and white lights so that planes don't hit it in the dark. Still, in my spacey mood, I was entranced by the view.

"Looks like it," Hobbes agreed, but went on to explain that the word of an eavesdropper, me, who doesn't understand normal conversational French wasn't enough evidence to give them the right to search the place.

For all we know they could have been discussing that other place on Rue Tunisie owned by Arnaud--that quaint little boulangerie where you can get great baguettes. Not.

I was surprised Interpol couldn't just storm the Bastille, but I guess I'm behind the times in regards to French politics.

"And Claire here kinda spilled the beans to the Duke and Duchess," Bobby said with a slight air of annoyance.

"Huh?" Crap, I was still not completely following conversations, I had to be more diligent.

"I didn't divulge anything top secret," she defended herself curtly. "Just told them that we were here because we work for the U.S. government. That our mission was to keep the wines from the Chateau Crane Noir out of enemy hands and would appreciate any assistance they could give us."

"Bobby, it sounds a whole lot more noble and self sacrificing when she says it." I grinned.

"Yeah, I'm just not sure it's safe to have civilians knowin' what we're getting' into." Hobbes ran his finger up and down the shiny surface of his lapel, obviously savoring the smooth texture. "These mooks could get dangerous."

"Hobbes, I steal the thing, you buy the wine…" I spoke softly, keeping my eyes on the cab driver. He hadn't acted as if he understood English up until now, but it was an easy thing to feign ignorance and listen in on a conversation. Done it hundreds of times.

"I didn't tell them about your secret," Claire explained, "But Gemma is a doctor and her husband knows chemistry. They've already proven to be great assets to us, so why are you complaining about it now, Robert?"

"He just likes to play it close to the vest." I flicked a finger at the dark green waistcoat Hobbes sported. He swatted my hand away the he'd shoo off a fly and smoothed the vest down his flat abdomen.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is over, but will Darien make it out alive?

It takes an Invisible Thief  
Part three

We drove past the _Moulin Rouge_ with its big red neon windmill. I wanted to stop for a while to see if Nicole Kidman was still up on a trapeze singing anachronistic songs to Ewan MacGregor. Sure would like to hear that _Voulez vous chouchez avec moi,_ again. There didn't seem to be a jeweled elephant apartment out front, which bummed me out until we arrived at the Georges Cinq.

If it had seemed like an awards show yesterday, tonight we were treated even more like royalty. Bowing and scraping from the peons on both sides. Really gratifying for the ego and kind of embarrassing at the same time.

We stepped off the elevator into a wonderland. Sometime since we had been there last night, elves had transformed the place with large potted ficus trees draped with twinkling fairy lights. Glittery stars were swaying on invisible fishing line from the ceiling and a string quartet was parked in one corner playing delicate sonatas to suit the occasion.

The famous and nearly famous hob-nobbed, all dressed in clothing that could have paid off the national debt. Glad to know we were fashionably able to keep up with the Francoises and Duprees. As we moved into the crowd, the elevator behind us opened up to disgorge more of Europe's finest.

"Shall we take a look at the grail?" Claire proposed, pointing at a line of people snaking into the side room that had been the tasting room the night before. It was obvious that something important now resided inside. Two beefy looking guards in ill-fitting tuxes stood stolidly outside, their eyes sizing up every person who entered.

The line was blessedly short because I was finding that even with all the medication I was on, prolonged standing was not a fun activity. I tried bracing my side with my right elbow, but it didn't stop the pain any. I concentrated on the grail instead.

At about five pounds, it was the worst use of semi-precious stones and eighteen-carat gold I'd ever seen. Why would any jeweler even agree to create such a repulsive work out of nature's beauty? The bowl of the cup was wide, with a raised pattern of gold swirls, a cabochon ruby, emerald or diamond in the exact center of each swirl. Except there were too many to be aesthetically beautiful, and the jewels would make it impossible to drink from, if anyone were to try. The base was a squat round of gold, also studded with rubies and diamonds with the thick stem decorated with tiny emeralds like leaves on a vine. There must be some pattern of jewels to press, or a secret latch to open the base and retrieve the computer chip.

As I'd noted the night before, the cup sat on a pedestal under spotlights, but there were no discernable alarms, no protective glass case and only video cameras to augment the guards outside the door. Easy as pie for the Invisible man to steal.

"Ugly thing, isn't it?" Hobbes made a face. "You'd think that with all those jewels, gold swirls and stuff they could have made something…"

 

"Remotely attractive?" Claire agreed, covering her mouth with one hand. She was wearing a heavy bracelet with emeralds and sapphires that matched the necklace around her neck.

"That's a much more beautiful use of the same rocks," I complimented.

"These rocks, as you put it." Claire dimpled, touching the huge central emerald just above her sternum. "Belong to Gemma, and I feel like a jewel thief magnet with it on."

"You've always attracted me." I grinned at her lecherously.

"Hey, that's my wife you're talking to." Hobbes took her arm, leading us into the dining room.

"Which reminds me, Bobby, you cannot keep using our sham marriage to pump the Duke for details of my youth," Claire stated firmly.

"Just making conversation while you ladies were shopping." He shrugged elaborately with an off hand gesture, " Asking about your family--your surname…"

"My last name is on a need to know basis, Robert."

"We're married, I think I need to know!" he protested.

"So, what did you find out…?" I started, looking down at Hobbes' face. He knew something, I could tell from his expression.

I heard someone murmur a greeting to "Madame, La Duchesse…" and turned to see a vision. If Lady Gemma were auditioning for the part of Titania in Midsummer Night's Dream, she would have won the part, hands down, in my opinion. She'd broken out the diamond-encrusted tiara for the night. It floated in a froth of dark curls, like a cluster of brilliant stars in a night sky. Her dress was as form fitting as a second skin, a shiny, silvery, pale fabric sprinkled with milky sequins that made her shimmer like the tail of a mermaid. The bodice barely skimmed the tops of her nipples, leaving a vast expanse of lightly tanned skin above accented by a single strand of pearls and diamonds, but the back of the dress was drawn up and flounced creating a long sensuous train behind her.

"Good evening all! Lovey, Robert." She disengaged her white-gloved hand from her husband's arm to give us a cheery wave. "I must say, Darien, you cleaned up well," she complimented before I could get a word in. "An Armani tux."

"I'm told it was expensive, but I didn't have to pay for it." I took her hand, giving the gloved back a gallant kiss. That brought up the question of who exactly did pay for it? Had the Fish actually given Alex enough money for everything she'd bought? I hadn't paid any attention. Or had…no, that wasn't possible, was it?

"Oh, so he's a kept man, hmmm?" She laughed as Claire gave her a quick buss on the cheek while their 'husbands' shook hands.

"For several years now," Claire teased, shooting me a look. I didn't like where this was going at all.

"Lucky woman, whoever she is." Gemma tucked her arm back into the crook of her tall Duke's elbow. He had some sort of baldric sash over his evening wear bearing the Lancaster ducal crest.

Man, I'd always hated the thought of messin' with another man's wife, but for a second there I wished the Duke weren't such a nice guy. I toyed with the idea of hiring someone to get him out of the way for the evening, just for one night with the fairy Queen.

"Sorry I look like such a slag." The duchess led the way to the table assigned to us. Little tiny gold edged and calligraphied name cards graced each plate.

"As if that were possible, darling." The Duke placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. I had to agree with the man, if this is what she looked like when she was a slag, what would she look like on a good night?

Bobby held the chair out for his blond doctor, but his eyes were endlessly sweeping the room, watching out for our enemies. Hobbes did this on a daily basis, whether we were on a case or not, but tonight I was glad of his intense scrutiny.

"Did you get the news, Gemma?" Claire asked breathlessly, obviously in on some secret the rest of us weren't.

"It was positive," she said with a glowing smile. "Another little Partridge on the way." She turned her face up to her husband's like a flower seeking the sun and I felt like a schmuck for even imagining a pretend affair. "Since we already have Scarlet, Dennys wants to go for a whole rainbow. I'm leaning towards a Violet or Lavender."

"Congratulations, man." Hobbes pumped the duke's hand. "But really, six kids?"

"Always wanted to put on my own cricket matches," he said dryly.

"You ARE hoping it's a girl though?" I laughed, "Cause I'd hate to meet a guy named Violet." I couldn't imagine where Lady Gemma could possibly fit a baby in that dress. Her belly was as flat as a teenager's.

"Well, there's some American football players named Gold and Silver," Hobbes put in absently staring at the table setting in front of him. Every place was crowded with three wineglasses and more silverware than I possibly knew what to do with.

"Well, then we celebrate tonight," Claire declared, holding up a wineglass just as a waiter came along to pour something into it. When we'd all gotten a good splash of some good French vin, we clinked glasses to honor the upcoming birth.

The mood was festive, but I had my mind on the activities planned for later. Food wasn't my thing, as it were, at the moment but luckily I was seated next to the Duchess and spent the first course flirting outrageously with her. Duke Dennys watched with an indulgent smile, since probably every man on the planet did the same thing whenever the woman was out in public. It was totally harmless, I knew I didn't stand a chance with her.

Hobbes finished his appetizer, a garden terrine with morels and chanterelles according to the menu, ahead of everyone else. "I think I'll just stretch my legs for a few. Anyone want anything from the bar?" When he got negatives from the table, he caught my eye for a fraction of a second before walking through the closely packed tables across to the French doors on the other side of the room.

I knew what he was thinking as if he'd spoken the words. The banquet was going too smoothly, too calmly. There was no hint of danger, and that made Bobby Hobbes nervous. Besides I knew that he wanted to make a call to San Diego, and with the time difference, it was the perfect opportunity.

At a small podium on a raised platform in the rear of the crowded dining room, a small bespeckled man in a real old fashioned tail coat began speaking in French with a lot of gesturing of hands and quirky facial expressions. He blinked and snorted so much I wondered if he had some sort of affliction, maybe that Tourette's syndrome thing. After a few moments, the woman who'd been registering people yesterday joined him to translate his speech into English and then German. Today, she wore a pink creation that made her look like one of those china dolls with starched pink skirts that stick out like an umbrella. Her English wasn't as good as it could be, but at least we caught the gist. Specs was thanking the usual contributors of this fine evening's event and introducing the growers and vintners of the wines being auctioned off tonight.

Amongst the people who stood up when their name was called was my old friend Etienne Fong. Well, maybe that cleared up what his real name was. I couldn't tell from where I was sitting without being too obvious whether Paul LeBon AKA Jean Blanc was sitting with him. Hopefully when Hobbes returned from his perimeter check, he'd know.

The Demerol was wearing off, pain and weariness shredding my composure. I could feel the sickness weighing me down, making me lethargic and stupid. Just the greatest timing ever.

"I must confess to being a trifle nervous." Dennys was pink from his brief introduction as the owner and winemaker of Lancaster Cellars, the blush extending up to his receding hairline. "We've never really attempted public sales on this level before."

"Dennys has a huge family," Gemma put in. "A case to everyone at Christmas used to just about wipe out our stock. So we doubled the acreage we have planted a few years ago, and voila, this is the result."

"In California, they're having terrible problems with Phloxera and glassy winged sharp shooters. Have you run into those here?" Claire asked with interest.

"We did use American root stock because they are hardier than the vines my father and grandfather had planted, so we haven't had any problem with Phloxera." Dennys nodded, obviously knowledgeable in his own field. "But every year there's some new infestation or other to worry about."

He and Claire traded shoptalk, which sailed completely over my head. The keeper is an amazing woman. She can hold her own on such a vast array of subjects and is always up on the most recent information. How does she hold that much stuff in her brain?

My problem was I couldn't have kept up my end of a conversation on the California Penal system at that moment, and I'm fairly well versed on that subject most of the time. The longer I waited to do my one big job, the more I was fraying around the edges. I took a gulp of water, vowing to stay alert until the main coarse was served, make my exit and steal the grail. After that, I planned to call Hobbes on the cell and collapse.

"Thinking deep thoughts. Darien?" the Duchess asked, toying with her wineglass.

"As a well," I said, but giving her a smile to take the edge off. "Just concerned about our mission."

"As well you should be." She pursed her Clara Bow lips. "Bioterrorism is the worst kind of evil. But I know Jean-Claude Renaud. If he can't find an antibiotic, no one can."

"My lady, you hide an incredible mind behind that pretty face," I complimented, smiling when she mouthed a thank you. I'm glad she had faith in ol' Jean-Claude because he seemed like the typical absent minded microbiologist to me.

"Robert!" Claire called out, spotting Hobbes coming towards up carrying a tumbler of amber liquid. "Come sit, dinner's being served."

"Just a minute, sweetheart." He waved, inclining his head at me. "I wanna talk to the expert here."

"I'm going to take a detour to the…" I stopped, not sure how to phrase it in front of titled people, "The little agent's room after I confer with the boss man." I stood as slowly as possible but the sudden onslaught of agony from my lower half nearly cut me in two. I hid it pretty well, but I also had an audience of two doctors.

"Hurry back, Darien." Claire was watching me closely, she knew I was getting too sick to be there.

"Blanc is over there with Fong-Chen." Hobbes stood against the wall near our table, but with my height I could now easily make out our two favorite suspects. They both had dates, which surprised me, pretty Asian girls in nearly matching outfits, those slinky oriental dresses with the high collars. One in aqua, the other in salmon. On second look, the girls were identical twins.

"They look pretty harmless." I commented, trying to keep from obsessing over my belly. It was a pretty depressing subject at that point, anyway.

"Huh," Bobby lifted his chin like he was giving them a challenge, "You'd think so, wouldn't you."

"So…anything else, Double 0-7?"

"Just got off the horn with Eberts. Monroe spotted Arnaud in San Diego," he informed me.

"How does she know?"

"She's seen his picture--she knows her stuff," Hobbes defended her unexpectedly.

They did have the consummate spy training thing in common, and I've noticed the longer they work together, the more able she is to get into his groove, instead of just doing her own version of _La Femme Nakita_. She'd never be in sync with Bobby Hobbes the way I was, but that was what made our partnership special.

"Hobbes," I said exasperated. "Arnaud is invisible. Any time he is visible, it's a mask. What makes you think he didn't give someone else an Arnie mask so they could parade around Southern California lookin' like him?"

"Why?" Hobbes asked rhetorically. "You're getting just about as paranoid as I am, my friend, which could be a good thing, but what reason would de Phon have for doin' that?"

"To keep an eye on the product."

"Well, that's a point we can argue all night, or you can do the saran wrap thing and then practice your art." He briefly watched waiters delivering Chicken Kiev to eager diners. Our table would be one of the last served, so he had time to get over and make excuses for me while I disappeared.

"I'll give you a call when it's done." I patted the pocket with my tricorder sized cell phone. "Got yours on vibrate?"

"Done." He nodded curtly.

"Bobby, did you get one of those spittoons?" I started to go, then turned back to him, twisting at the waist. Waves of pain shot up my torso, sparks exploding behind my retinas. I leaned as casually as possible against the wall for support.

"Right near the elevators." He looked up at me with concern in those dark brown eyes, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Are you gonna make it?"

"Never better, Hobbesy, never better," I lied. "But after I stick the grail inside, I don't think I'll be able to lift it. When I give you the call, can you get it downstairs without those guards noticing?"

"Not a problem," he boasted confidently. "Take care of yourself, partner. No heroics. Bobby Hobbes has always got your back."

Taking a detour into the men's room, I splashed some water on my face. I couldn't lose it now, so close to the finish line. Taking the two Demerol I'd stashed in my pocket, I knew I just had to pace myself more carefully until they took effect, but damned if walking weren't becoming more and more difficult by the minute. I couldn't even tolerate touching my right lower abdomen. It was tight as a drum and so inflamed each movement, each breath, sent waves of agony up and down my body. I let the Quicksilver glide over me, knowing the cold would help some.

So attired, I walked out past the diners now enjoying their breaded chicken and white wine. In Quicksilver vision everything looks silvery. I risked a single second to glance over at the table of my friends. In my shimmery vision, Gemma's tiara gave her a sort of halo as she bent over, giggling with some witticism to Claire. Hobbes was looking straight at me with a tense expression, although I'm sure he didn't know it. He turned back to listen to Dennys' comment, pointing with a smile at Claire. I wished I could be back there, eating buttery chicken Kiev.

Walking slowly to keep my ragged breathing from being loud enough for others to hear me, I passed by the guards without a problem. As I'd hoped, there was no one in the room admiring the grail, but chairs had materialized for the auction later.

It was a simple thing to cross the floor, pick up the cup and start for the exit. A simple thing, but I didn't manage to finish what I'd started. Reaching out, I picked up the grail, letting the Quicksilver cover it completely. Even lifting that trivial weight wrenched my guts and I stumbled. Trying to grab it more securely, I felt the base twist in my hand as it hit the pedestal, but it was invisible to me. In Quicksilver vision, I can see what is in the normal spectrum as silvery, and other people give off a colored aura because they have heat. The grail gave off no luminescence, but there was definitely something loose on the base. Probing blindly, I wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on around me. A man came out of a servant's door, carrying more chairs, and I froze, hoping our paths didn't cross. He wasn't blind though, he could see in an instant that the grail was missing.

Crap. Something tiny dropped into my palm and I almost dropped the grail in surprise. I clutched the jeweled stem of the cup more firmly, hugging it to my body while trying to make it to the door. Nothing is ever simple, is it?

 _"Au secours! Le calice est disparu!_ " He began to run around, dropping the chairs all over the place while I tried dodging him.

I had only one really coherent thought in the next few seconds, that the only way to save the situation was to out Arnuad Arnaud. Swallowing nervously, I tried to ignore the hard pain moving down my esophagus. I slid to the left, but the crazy guy was tossing chairs around like he was trying out for a new sport in the summer Olympics.

Luck wasn't with me. One chair caught me square in the belly, slamming into me like a bomb going off inside my body. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't keep the Quicksilver flow. I did manage to hold onto the grail as the two guards pushed in, closing the door behind them. Did I say they were big? Maybe not as tall as me, but a matched set of steroid enhanced muscles with little tiny heads.

I don't know who was more shocked, the hotel maintenance guy who saw me appear right in front of him, or me when the guards grabbed hold of my now visible arms. They dragged me out the same service door the maintenance guy had used.

Man, even token resistance was pretty much beyond me by them. I hurt too bad. Blue eyed Muscles had a cell phone in his pocket, which he used to make a quick call while the other guy relieved me of the grail and held my hands behind me. His grip was like steel. I felt stupid and weak. My one job and I'd buggered it. All I could think about was Bobby waiting for my call, and worrying when I didn't check in.

What if he thought I'd double-crossed him? Stolen the ugly conglomeration of jewels for myself? Would he think that? I was too self absorbed to notice that my old friend Etienne Fong had appeared just about as suddenly as I must have to the maintenance guy. I really had to try following the action more closely.

"Monsieur Fawkes." He looked up at me, his accent not just French, maybe Chinese as well, but I'm not that good at accents.

"You know me?" I managed. Hard to talk with some goon trying to make your elbows meet in the back.

"By reputation, only." He gave a Gaelic shrug. "Your friend Arnaud sends his regards."

"Send him my regrets," I said, but there wasn't much oomph to my voice anymore, "I'm not sticking around any function he comes to."

"Well, you're in luck, then. He isn't here." He smiled tightly, issuing some instructions to the guards in French. He took the grail back from brown-eyed guard, cradling it in his arms. "Trying to steal my baby? There are laws here against that sort of thing. And here in France, we don't have the same sort of jurisprudence you do in the states. You'll see how we deal with thieves here."

With that the guards dragged me down the hall and into a service elevator. Quicksilver was my only ace in the hole. If I could go invisible, maybe that would startle my captors enough for Brown eyes to loosen his grip. Too bad I didn't get the chance to find out. When we got to the elevator, I swear one of 'em gave me the Vulcan neck pinch. I felt a tight grip on my shoulder and nothing. Who knew French body builders would be Star Trek fans?

++++++++++++++++

Coming to in a moving vehicle, I raised my head to try to get my bearings but it felt as heavy as lead. Damn, I was sick. Everything hurt and much as I hated to admit it, I was scared.

Where was Fong taking me? Would Hobbes be able to find me? My heart was hammering in my chest, either from fear or the fact that I had one hell of a fever, it was a toss up. The problem was, an increased heart rate was a surefire way to go Quicksilver involuntarily, and I didn’t want that to happen right then. I took a calming breath, trying to recapture the peaceful mood from the Tuilleries gardens two day ago. Sweat was trickling down my back between my shoulder blades, the Egyptian cotton shirt sticking to my skin and even the underarms of my Armani Tux jacket were wet.

Think about boats sailing gently on a pond, I told myself, think about sweet violin music played by a pretty little girl, anything but the fact that Fong would most likely would kill me for trying to steal that damned cup. Well, luckily, it was an impotent grail now.

I wasn’t tied up, so I wrapped my arms around my treacherous belly, working on the biofeedback my brother Kevin had tried to teach me shortly before he’d died.

Oh, crap, maybe that wasn’t the best memory to bring up right then.

Please, God, Hobbes, find me before Arnaud discovers I’ve been captured and makes like a pirate, digging for buried treasure in my skull.

Just as I’d almost channeled my inner Dalai Lama, the van lurched to a stop and the back doors swung open. A big Asian man I didn’t recognize jerked me out with such force that I fell forward on my knees. To tell the truth, I no longer had any strength left. The agony in my belly was an all-consuming force shredding my intestines to ribbons. All I wanted to do was curl up there in the dirty French gutter and die.

 _"Dans le entrepot._ " Fong ordered and my friend Big Boy just about picked me up and carried me inside a warehouse. With a little more weight he could have excelled as a sumo wrestler. He already had the cross-armed choke hold down pat.

Beyond caring about maintaining any sort of dignity, Armani tux or not, I landed in a dusty heap on the floor. The building was almost completely dark except for one of those light bulbs inside a protective cage that are usually found in most auto repair garages. It dangled on a long chain hanging from the ceiling, swinging lazily in an elliptic loop, creating eerie shadows on the wall. I really didn’t like the whole atmosphere.

"A coupla throw rugs, a futon and a lava lamp would brighten this place up." I said, going for casual indifference, but I think I missed the mark big time. My voice wouldn’t stay steady and I had to catch my breath half way through the sentence.  
"Where's my property, Mr. Fawkes?" Fong set the grail down on an old scratched desk covered with ancient dust. Every time he moved, little flurries floated into the air like tiny duststorms in a miniature Foreign legion movie. I could tell I was getting loopy, because I really just wanted to sit there and watch the tiny motes hovering in the light bulb's beam.

"You got the beer stein," I pointed lazily.

"Where is the chip?" he demanded more angrily. Big boy moved up behind me, his shadow looming.

"No chips here." I spread out my hands, fascinated to see they weren't trembling. "I wanted a couple chocolate chip cookies, too, but nobody in Paris serves 'em."

"The computer chip," he spat without patience.

I closed my eyes, mostly because the room was tipping just off kilter, but also to cover my lie. My Grandmother says I can't lie, that my eyes give me away. "It fell out when I dropped the grail. The chair guy musta stolen it."

"I had the room searched. It wasn't there."

"What can I say?" I grinned, "Maybe I swallowed it."

"A joker? Well, I know how to make you talk."

"Didjou hear that in some old Nazi movie?" I mouthed off, regretting it the second the words came out of my mouth. " Cuz you got the accent wrong…"

Sumo wrestler wanna-be smacked me across the back of the head so hard I almost went face first into the cement floor. Fong growled something in French, stepping over me.

He walked into the shadows to the rear of the building, returning moments later with a wine bottle. My hard earned calm shattered, my heart speeding up like the roadrunner when Wylie Coyote had an Acme cannon pointed at him.

"You represent yourself as some sort of wine taster?" Fong asked with an ironic air, holding out the bottle like a Sommelier at a fancy restaurant.

"Not any sort at all." My eyes were riveted on the distinctive embossed gold label with the sinister black castle.

"For reasons I believe you know, we didn't have a sampling of my private reserve." He uncorked the bottle, his eyes flat black and totally devoid of humanity. "So, I'm giving you a special tasting here. I'm sure you'll find it a surprisingly bold wine with a certain _je ne sais quoi."_ He poured out the garnet liquid, swirling the wine around in a long stemmed glass. "Perhaps a glass will loosen you up, make it easier to talk." Holding out the wineglass to me, he smirked, "salut. Drink up."

"Only if you join me," I said softly, my throat already spasming at the thought of drinking that deadly vintage.

 _"Alors, mais_ …I am no drinker. A teetotaler I think you Americans call it." He smiled without humor or warmth. "Ironic in my profession, no? Pascal, _l'empecher de monter."_

Big boy Pascal easily held me down, prying open my jaw with one huge fist while holding my chin in a tight grip so I couldn't close my mouth. There was no more strength left in me to resist, but I tried to make a grab for the wineglass as Fong poured the vile fluid straight down my throat.

The flow of wine triggered an immediate adrenaline response which in turn caused the Quicksilver to flow. Elementary physics, cause and effect. The effect was immediate. The second I went invisible, Pascal dropped me so quickly my head slammed against the wall. The Quicksilver flaked away, but the damage was already done. I had swallowed reflexively, ingesting a known biological toxin.

My flailing arms finally connected with Fong, knocking the glass from his hands. Wine splattered all over the both of us, purple staining the fronts of both our dress shirts and suits. In my shattered wits, there was the fleeting thought that Alex would kill me for ruining the tuxedo. Too bad I was already dying.

The sickly aroma of death lay thick in the dusty air, attar of roses. I gagged.

 _"Qu'est-ce qui ce passe?"_ Pascal cried, backing up in alarm.

I knew what he meant. What had just happened? I wasn't entirely sure since about that time the door to the warehouse slammed open and about a hundred people stormed in. Lights, noise, sirens, gunfire, shouting--chaos masquerading as the cavalry.

I curled over on my side, afraid the thundering feet would trample me flat. My stomach burning, I deposited a stream of used grape juice onto the floor, terrified beyond anything I'd ever felt before. I was going to die. There was no cure.

Although I was already in agony, I imagined I could feel the meningitis insidiously invading my body, destroying all the healthy cells in it's path.

"Darien! Darien, can you hear me?" Claire's voice sounded like it was coming from a distant planet and I didn't have my decoder ring.

"Darien, sweetheart." Her cool hands were on each side of my face, turning me towards her.

"Fawkes, the keeper's talkin' to you!" Hobbes commanded, "Tell her what's wrong."

"Don'…"

"What, Darien?" Claire was unbuttoning my shirt.

"Smells like he bathed in it," Hobbes commented, "You think he drank…?"

"Don't come close." I managed on the second try. "Claire, yer dress."

"Darien, don't worry about that," she soothed, taking my pulse. It was racing, my blood speeding through my veins, infected with meningitis. "What happened?"

"I swallowed it."

"The wine?" Hobbes' voice squeaked.

"An' th'chip," I whispered. My eyes were finally focusing enough to see them hovering over me, fear evident on their faces. "But I Quicksilvered…"

"When?" Claire was now palpating my belly, eliciting a scream of pain from me.

"Don't…don't, I'm gonna die, Claire." I was whimpering but I didn't care. Maybe the meningitis would fuck up the gland and the Fat Man wouldn't be able to pull it out. That was something at least. I'd take that damned gland to my grave.

"You're not going to die, partner," Hobbes stated emphatically, grasping my shoulder.

Claire was still pressing on my bruised abdomen despite my protests, so I grabbed her wrist just as she started unzipping my pants. "Don't." Finally, some power behind the word, but the effort exhausted me.

"My God, Darien, how long has this been like this?" Claire demanded, her tone both shocked and angry.

"Kicked in the groin, 'member?" I tried to roll away from her probing fingers. I just wanted some peace but the noise in the warehouse was still so loud with all the people roaming around. I was no longer even sure if the noise came from inside my head or from the crowd of agents. My head was threatening to split in half, and it wasn't like a gland headache either. Just pure pain blotting out real life.

"Unless I miss my guess, your appendix is ready to burst." Claire laid a gentle hand on my forehead. "We're taking you to Gemma's clinic."

"S'no use. The wine…"

"There's still some time, Darien. We got to you so quickly. I promise you, we'll find an antibiotic."

"Did you say you swallowed the computer chip? From the grail?" Hobbes asked urgently, his face down close to mine so he could keep my wandering wits focused on him. His eyes were dark and scared, for me, his hand still solidly on my right shoulder.

"Bobby!" Claire cried. "He doesn't need to be interrogated now!"

"I did." Reaching out blindly, I latched onto his jacket, closing my fingers around the fabric. Everything was slipping further and further away, voices going loud then soft again like some idiot was fooling with a radio's volume dial. Hobbes' shawl collared jacket was satiny soft under my fingers but I couldn't get a firm purchase. I kept trying, clutching to the only thing I could hang onto with my life hanging in the balance. "H-Hobbes, Claire kin get…it out, but not the gland. Don't let 'em get th'gland."

"Partner, you're not gonna die." I swear Bobby sounded like he was crying, but my hearing was messed up. "Nobody's getting' the gland, I swear to you."

It was the last thing I heard.

 

++++++++++++++++++++++

Hobbes told me much later that Interpol scored a completely successful raid on the Rue Tunisie warehouse, thanks to me. They confiscated all the crates of wine located there, as well as the wine ready for auction at the Georges Cinq. Paul LeBon had been caught literally red handed at the hotel, having dropped a bottle of Chateau Crane Noir Bordeaux just as agents moved in to arrest him.

When I didn't call Hobbes five minutes after I'd left him, he got worried and went looking for me. He didn't find me or the grail, so he alerted Desjardins and Clarons. Luckily, their stakeout of Rue Tunisie had seen the van pull up, but Pascal must have dragged me out in a side alley, cause it wasn't until Hobbes gave them the heads up that they finally got ready to go in fighting.

How Hobbes and Claire got there so fast, I'm not sure, but it had a lot to do with the Lancaster's chauffeur and a missed career as a Grand Prix racecar driver.

Because Fong had poured the Chateau Crane Noir 1996 Special Reserve down my unwilling gullet, Interpol was able to stick him with all sorts of nasty charges that would keep him in the clink for about a million years. Kidnapping, torture, and the really big one, international bio-terrorism, which is a big no-no right now. They were also successful in keeping the wine from being auctioned off, which was a good thing since Hobbesy missed the auction looking for me. Thus, none of the Fat Man's much thumbed cash was spent.

Having captured two known bio-terrorists made Interpol and the U.S. Government very happy. Charlie Borden was happy. Hobbes got credit for being agent in charge, so he was happy.

And me, yeah, I didn't die. And that made me very happy.

+++++++++++++++++

When I awoke the first time, I was alone in a big pastel colored room. I felt disconnected, my brain full of cotton batting, my mouth dry as dust. Where was I? There were the usual hospital machines next to the bed, IVs in both arms. That explained that.

Moving was not an option at the moment, pain radiating around me like an aura. So I lay carefully still, shifting my eyes to look past a pair of sheer, pale blue curtains. How long had I been here? There was no clock in the room, and it was a gloomy, gray skied day out the window. With a start, I realized I could see the Statue of Liberty standing sentinel over the water outside the hospital, near a bridge. That kinda freaked me out. Had I been so sick we'd returned to the U.S. without my knowing? If so, why were we in New York and not San Diego?

Days later when I was somewhat more lucid, the Duchess pointed out that what I could see was a quarter sized cousin of the famous American version of the lady with the lamp, exchanged in some sort of Franco American hands across the water thing. And that ain't spaghettios.

For the first few minutes, I just lay in that weird half conscious state that sometimes occurs after a shot of counteragent when I've let the Quicksilver build up high in my system. Had I gone QSM? I didn't remember doing so. But my head hurt, my throat hurt and my belly felt like it had been sliced open with a scalpel.

A nurse came in, taking my temperature and speaking to me in French. I didn't understand a word, but English would have been a challenge just then. It did clear up the question of what country we were in. I let her sweet voice float around my head, content to lie unmoving, until she injected some drug into my I.V. line and I closed my eyes again. It was too hard to fight the sedative and the less pain I had to deal with, the better.

People came in and out, and I think I spoke to them, but nothing made sense.

I dreamed.

Cary Grant and Pierce Brosnan were at a cocktail party. Everyone was sipping shaken not stirred martinis but the hors d'oerves made me nauseated. Hobbes was eating them anyway, chomping away on little toast points of caviar. At some point, Claire and Lady Gemma came in dressed in Yves St. Laurent couture surgical garb, prepped me on a dining room table and extracted the computer chip in front of the well dressed crowd. I screamed cause there wasn't enough anesthesia, and Arnaud toasted me with a bottle of Chateau Crane Noir Bordeaux, 1996 Special reserve. Then everybody else downed a glass of the stuff and died, their bodies falling over one another like that game pick up sticks.

I woke up crying and someone was wiping my face with a wet rag, murmuring soft words in my ear. It took me a moment to recognize the voice.

"Hey, Darien, you're all right," Claire said in a comforting tone. "Think you can wake up this time?"

"What time izzit?" I muttered, my heart still thudding painfully. Weak sunlight was coming through the curtains, but I could hear the patter of light rain on the window glass.

"Way past time you were up, Sleepin' Beauty," Hobbes said with hearty cheeriness. He sat down on the side of the bed, his face an odd mix of concern and boastful pride. "We shut down the whole operation here. Fat Man'd have us back in 'Diego, 'cept you decided to take the sleeping tour of Paris."

"You got all the bad guys?" I let go of the lingering effects of the dream, concentrating on being alive. I wondered how long that would last before the meningitis dragged me under, taking me to an early grave.

"Fong and LeBon are in the French slammer thanks to you." Hobbes held out a hand for a high five. Mine was the lamest but he didn't seem to mind. "You didn't have to drink the wine, though."

"Not my idea." I was going to shrug, but decided against it. Moves too many muscles.

"And I don't think he actually DID swallow any," Claire said.

"What? I did." I stared at her with such force she looked flustered, flipping a lock of blond hair behind her ear.

"Darien, there is very little of the meningitis bacteria in your bloodstream, and what is there is effectively dead, just cellular debris. You never showed any signs of the disease."

"You mean I'm not gonna die?" Crap, my voice was way too high pitched there. I cleared my throat, but it was like sandpaper. Must have had one of those damned breathing tubes down my windpipe during the surgery.

"No, I don't think so." Claire smoothed my hair back with a cool, sweet hand, then offered me sips of water. "Not for a long time, anyway. You're incredibly lucky, Darien."

"How'd that happen?" I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that everything was okay.

"I'd estimate because you Quicksilvered. Froze the bacteria." She grinned, "The gland saved your life."

"Again." Hobbes rolled his eyes.

"I am angry at you, though," Claire continued. "Because you endangered your life by not telling me about your appendix."

"Hey." I looked over at Hobbes for support but he shook his head, wanting no part of it. "I thought I had the flu…I'm no doctor, don't blame me for makin' an incorrect diagnosis."

"I make the diagnoses around here," she said snippily, patting my cheek. "Remember that next time."

"Yes ma'am." I attempted a properly chastened expression, but I wanted to jump and dance around the room. I wasn't going to die!

Hobbes was laughing at me, shaking his finger. "I told you to tell her."

"You told me to tell her I had the flu. I did."

"But you didn't have the flu!" he countered.

"I thought I did."

"Boys." Claire cleared her throat, ending our little squabble. "Darien, we could have removed your appendix before it burst and avoided a major infection. You may not have meningitis but you do have peritonitis, a quite nasty infection in its own right. You'll be on weeks of antibiotics…"

"Did you get the chip?" I asked to stop her from reciting my entire medical plan.

"Gemma removed it successfully while she was in the vicinity." Claire replied, picking up my chart from the bedside table, checking the entries.

"The vicinity?" I asked repulsed.

"You know, the vicinity." Hobbes pointed to a broad area in the general direction of my stomach and intestines. "Apparently, digestion doesn't affect it any at all."

"I hardly think I digested it."

"No, you certainly didn't," Doctor Claire agreed. "In your condition at the time, you weren't digesting anything. And food won't be on your menu for a few days still, you need to give your intestines proper time to heal."

"Claire?" Hobbes held out his hand in a very proprietary gesture. "We have that…uh…"

"Going somewhere?" I grinned from my sick bed, happy someone around here was having a good time.

"A moonlight cruise, if you must know." Claire dimpled, fiddling with her hair.

"In the rain?"

"It'll be very romantic."

"Aww, don't tell him that," Hobbes griped good-naturedly. "You know what he could do with ammunition like that?"

"Bobby n' Claire…" I teased but a cramp in my side brought me up short, ending the song.

Hobbes stabbed a finger at me. "If Eberts gets wind of this…"

"Hey, I can be bought." I took a slow breath to work through the pain, "My needs are simple…"

"And the nurse is on her way in with a painkiller," Claire broke in. "You look like you need it."

So, I didn't have the fatal wine disease after all and for once I'd had something nasty removed from my body. The first time that has ever happened.

I slept a lot, days fading into a monotonous cycle of meds and dressing changes. Antibiotics, painkillers, and let's not forget the ever present counteragent. Between IVs and injections, I had needletracks up and down both arms like some strung out addict.

I have it on good authority that Hobbes and Claire were enjoying themselves a great deal more than I was. Duchess Gemma turned out to be a fantastic surgeon and a really sneaky gossipmonger. She reported on their early morning _tete a tetes_ over French omelets, their strolls along the Seine, and the time they borrowed her limo for a tour of a nearby _chateau._ It was better than the really old versions of Another World playing on the TV.

"Good morning, Darien." The Duchess breezed into my room one morning, her dark hair twisted into a braid down her back. In a long green and yellow flowered shirt and green leggings, she looked about twenty-one. And there still wasn't a hint of pregnancy. "We're letting you out of your indenture today."

"You're springing me?"

"After my final exam." She tucked her tongue firmly in cheek, "And final exams can be such rot, can't they?"

"I think I'll ace this one." I rose from where I was sitting on the edge of the bed, a little stiff, but considerably more agile than the night of the banquet. "All healed up."

"And don't worry about a scar." She leaned in close with a twinkle in her almost purple eyes. "The stitches are invisible."

She'd caught me blindsided but I can prevaricate with the best of them. "You must be good with a needle and thread."

"Amazing what one has to work with when the patient disappears on the way to the operating theatre," she said dryly. "You told me you had a rare condition, but I never expected it to be so…transparent."

"You're wicked." I grinned, her revelation having sped up my heartrate faster than I'd liked, but a little adrenaline in the morning can be a good thing. Keeps me on my toes. "You saw through our charade, huh?"

"Always been good at parlor games." Gemma returned the friendly grin. She gave me a cursory exam, pressing gently on the tender places and complimenting herself on her own surgical prowess.

I had to admit that if I had to have an appendectomy scar, it was a decent looking one. Small, neat and healing well. No annoying puckers to embarrass me when I wanted to wear a Speedo.

"What's that one?" I asked suspiciously, pointing to a second much smaller incision slightly higher on my abdomen. It was barely as long as the end of my pinkie, but I'd been so ill earlier in the week I hadn't paid much attention to the fact that there were two wounds.

"There was a small matter of accidental ingestion of a computer chip. Your Interpol chums were waiting very impatiently outside the theatre to take possession of the thing, but Claire insisted first things first. Appendix was there first." She made a face. "And a nasty little thing it was, too."

"It wasn't an accidental ingestion," I countered, not wanting to hear how bad off I'd been from waiting too long for organ removal. "But you had to make two scars?"

"That or one really long one." She traced her finger up the unblemished flesh between the two scars, eliciting a surprising tickle reflex.

I grunted a laugh. It hurt to use my abdominal muscles, but I liked laughing with her.

After taping on a small gauze bandage over each wound, the Duchess selected a syringe off the tray she'd brought in. She flicked the syringe plunger, letting out the airbubbles floating in the blue-green liquid. "Claire and her Robert are enjoying one last stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, so I've been given the task of administering your injection."

"Lucky you." I pushed up the long sleeve of the blue shirt that proclaimed _"J'aime Paris_ " with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. Hobbes had gotten it for me since he knew how uncomfortable I was in all those suits Alex had bought. I'd never think of them as my clothes. "Lucky me." The sarcasm was a bit too obvious there.

"Lucky me." She slid the needle into a vein with practiced ability, frowning slightly when I flinched. There'd been too many needles lately and not enough time to recover between them.

Since I knew she'd want to see it, I silently held up my right wrist so Gemma could watch the ourobros's segments turn from red to green. There'd only been six red ones, but Claire was going the cautious route lately, not wanting me to go QSM when I was healing from surgery.

"I must confess I was utterly fascinated when Lovey explained the science to me." She pressed a cotton ball over the needle mark on my arm, "I'd even read theoretical articles on the work. I never thought there was a real gland."

"It's real, all right." I took over the job of holding the cotton ball, but wanting for some unaccountable reason to rub the back of my head where there is another scar hidden by my hair.

"My Da always said, 'Girl, loose lips sink ships." Lady Gemma disposed of her needle, ducking her head slightly, but there was real curiosity in her face, "So, never fear, my lips are sealed, but how does it feel?"

"Cold."

"Darien, you'll be going back to the States tomorrow and our paths will probably never cross, so could I presume to make one request?" She looked like a pretty little pixie in that green and yellow flowered shirt and I chastised myself for having such thoughts about a married, pregnant woman.

"Take my hand." I knew what she wanted. What everyone always wanted when they discovered my Quicksilver secret. Back to being used, but I didn't mind quite so much with her. Lady Gemma was my fantasy, as unobtainable as the moon. We could both flirt because each of us knew neither would go any further. It was safe.

And it hurt worse than the swelling appendix had.

Her tiny fingers curled in my palm, my hand completely engulfing hers. She looked up at me bright eyed and eager, then open mouthed as I let the Quicksilver flow down from the top of my head. The cold enveloped me, her hand in mine the last warmth I felt as we both silvered and disappeared.

"Bloody hell," the Duchess gasped in surprise, then gave way to giggles, her laugh like wind chimes in a breeze.

I could see her outline, a delicate pinky lavender in QS vision before I shook my hand, returning to visibility in sections. Gemma stayed invisible a few seconds longer than I had, so I could watch her face when she seemed to appear out of thin air in front of me. It's not often I'm on the watching end of the spectacle. She gave a deep contented sigh, shaking her head as if to clear out any last particles of Quicksilver.

"That was truly amazing. You are a lucky man."

"If you say so." I'd never thought myself lucky to have the gland. More like cursed.

"You have a unique perspective on life." Lady Gemma looked up at me much more seriously, "You can see through people whether they're aware of it or not."

"I think you've got it backwards. They can see through me."

"You'd be surprised, Darien." She began to tidy up her medical supplies. "I plan to keep in touch with Lady Claire, to keep my finger in the medical end of the gland, so to speak. I delight in puzzles. Too bad she can't publish her…"

"About Lady Claire," I spoke up quickly, glad for the change in subject. What was it about these British girls and a tendency to ramble? "Where's her family in England? Is she titled?"

"Partner!" Bobby Hobbes' voice came from the hall. He burst in with typical Hobbes bravado, Claire attached to one arm, both laughing at some private joke. "You ready to bust outta this joint?"

"His doctor has written discharge orders." Gemma held up a thick chart, giving me a cheeky wink.

"Get me outta here," I agreed, recognizing a brick wall when I saw one. I wasn't going to get any info on the mysterious Dr. Claire possibly Keeply from the Duchess of Lancaster.

"We've just come from Jean-Claude's lab," Claire said. "He's over the moon with the data off the computer chip. This will push his research ahead by months."

"Guy was dancin' around the lab like a man with half his bulk," Hobbes snorted. "Kinda scary, if you ask me."

"Doing the hustle?" I asked, falling back into familiar patterns with my partner.

"More like the bunny hop, with kind of a hip wiggle thing goin' on. Like I said, scary." He hefted my bag of discharge meds. Can't leave the hospital without them. "C'mon, Claire!"

"Good-bye, Gemma!" The two women fell into each other's arms, swearing they'd keep in touch. Hobbes and I just watched with amusement, looking forward to our last ride in the Duchess's limo with the wet bar and the VCR.

The Lancasters even used their influence to get us seats on some bigwig's private jet so I could ride back to the States stretched out and comfortable. Can't have the convalescent sitting all scrunched up in coach. The only problem was one of the other passengers, a guy in a leather jacket with Russian Mafia stamped on his forehead. I spent half the trip to California keeping Hobbes distracted from trying to interrogate the guy. Claire's attempts at distraction proved far more successful than mine, and after about ten minutes of their billing and cooing, I took a transatlantic nap.

So, I got my chance to wear a tuxedo, steal an infamous jewel and flirt with a Duchess, no less, which I think is better than a Countessa. But it didn't turn out at all as I'd expected, and in some ways, it was a disappointment.

I mean, who can live like that all the time? The glamour, the caviar, long cars and room service… okay, I could live like that for quite some time, but in the end even I'd know there was a time to get back to real life. My real life, such as it is, stuck in San Diego with a Quicksilver gland in my brain. I had friends, employment, and strange as it seems, I was beginning to like that life. Truth _is_ stranger than fiction.

 

Fin


End file.
